


A Beastly Discovery

by agathas_your_uncle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Discovery of Witches, Alternative Werewolf Lore, Crossover, Fae & Fairies, Isaac Lahey is a librarian, M/M, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf) is a Ray of Sunshine, Stiles is probably a demon, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-07-14 18:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16046546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agathas_your_uncle/pseuds/agathas_your_uncle
Summary: “You look different.”Stiles resisted the urge roll his eyes, “Ten years and puberty will do that.”Again Derek gave him a small smile and really, what was the point of all this? If Derek was going to execute him in the middle of a room he will undoubtedly inherit someday Stiles would rather he get it over with.Something must have said so on his face, because Derek coughed and straighten his shoulders, stepping back slightly, "Would you like to come over for dinner?"__________________________________________________________________________________All Stiles wanted was to get his research done and get the hell out of town. He did not want to get sucked in to pack relations, or be reminded of how unwelcome a creature like himself was. A mysterious little book called B.782 changes all that.OR. The "Discovery of Witches" crossover that nobody asked for.





	1. The Bestiary

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! And thank you for taking a chance on this questionable fanfic. As stated in the summary, this is a crossover / heavily influenced by the book "A Discovery of Witches" by Deborah Harkness. The first two chapters are near mirrors of the book, but later on the fic will probably take on a life of it's own. Comment, leave kudos! Much love <3

The leather-bound volume was nothing remarkable. To an ordinary historian, it would have looked no different from hundreds of other manuscripts in Beacon Hills University Library, ancient and worn. But Stiles knew there was something off about it the moment he collected it.

Ingrid Hale Reading Room was deserted, it being a late-September afternoon and requests for library materials were filled quickly now that the summer crush of visiting scholars -- a surprising amount for a small, eclectic university such as BHU. The fall term had not yet begun, and Stiles was enjoying the peace and lack of botherings. 

Even so, he was surprised when Isaac stopped him at the call desk.

“Professor Stilinski, your manuscripts are up,” he whispered, voice tinged with a touch of mischief. The questionable scarf wrapped around the front of his neck was streaked with rusty traces of old leather bindings, and he brushed at it absentmindedly. 

“Thanks,” Stiles winked at him. He was flagrantly disregarding the rules limiting the number of books one could call in a single day, but Stiles was only back in his hometown a short amount of time. He’d arrived only a week ago, said a quick hello to his father and then essentially had set up camp in Ingrid Hale’s Reading Room.

Isaac, who the Stilinski's had taken in during a particularly hard time in his life during highschool, had been filling his book requests without complaint for the entire week.

“And stop calling me professor,” Stiles grumbled, “I always think you’re talking to someone else. Also, Isaac, we talked about the scarves.”

Isaac smirked, “They’re all the rage in Paris.”

“And how would you know, Mr-doesn’t-even-have-a-passport?” Stiles snarked back, gathering up his stack.

“It’s called the Internet, Stiles. I know, such a concept goes against your weirdo, book loving, page-smelling bibliophilia.”

“So says the librarian.”

“So says the librarian,” Isaac repeated, nodding, “Oh, there’s one more.” Isaac disappeared into the cage for a moment and returned with a thick manuscript, leather-bound in hide tinged a deep, russet red.

“This one’s not been called up for a while,” he murmured, “I’ll make a note that it needs to be returned to be boxed after you return it.”

“Do you want me to remind you?” Stiles asked, watching Isaac add the mysterious book to his pile.

“Already made a note here,” Isaac tapped his head with his finger.

“Your mind must be better organized than mine.”

“A mentally unstable  _ chimp’s _ mind is better organized than yours, Stiles.”

Stiles flipped him the bird and hoisted the volumes into his arms and rucked them under his chin, assailed suddenly by a whiff of the uncanny that drove away the library’s familiar scent of pencil shavings and floor wax.

Stiles felt his stomach drop, and his chest suddenly filled with dread.

“Stiles? You ok?” Isaac asked, studying Stiles’s face with concern.

“Fine,” Stiles said quickly, lowering the books away from his nose, “Just tired.”

He walked quickly through the original, nineteenth century part of the library, past the rows of Carnegie reading desks. The library was originally built and gifted by Edmond Hale to his children in 1881, and now stood as one of the oldest university libraries in the state. The reading room Edmond, a talented architect and upstanding citizen of Beacon Hills, built for his wife Ingrid five years later. The room was spacious and colonial looking, with wide rows of bookshelves and long reading tables that stretched from one end of the room to the other. Separating readers were standing panels that could slide back and forth, giving the illusion of privacy. At each section stood an antique glass lamp, which, in Stiles’s opinion, looked great but did little to light up a text.

Another young academic, Allison Argent, was Stiles’ sole companion in the library that night. A literature graduate student specializing in texts about American westward expansion, Allison spent her time pouring over early editions of Owen Wister, the “father” of western fiction. Stiles sped past her, trying to avoid contact, but the creaking of the library’s old floor gave him away.

His skin tingled as it always did when another witch looked at him.

“ Mieczyslaw?” she called. Stiles flinched at the sound of his real name, smothered a sigh, and stopped.

“Hi, Allison.” he said obligingly. Allison Argent had discovered his ancestry in highschool and, despite never going by his real name, had taken some kind of ownership in refusing to call him anything else.

She was a nice girl, and Stiles was sure her interest in him was out of solidarity, but he’d given up magic long ago, and had no desire to return to it.

Unaccountably possessive of his hoard of manuscripts, Stiles remained as far from the other witch as possible, angling his body so the books weren’t in her line of sight.

“What are you doing for Mabon?” Allison asked. She always asked. Always stopped by Stiles’s desk to ask him to spend time with other witches while he was in town. With the Wiccan celebrations of the autumn equinox just days away, Allison had redoubled her efforts to bring Stiles into the Beacon Hills coven. 

“Working.” Stiles responded promptly.

Allison sighed, “There are some very nice witches here, you know. You should join us Monday. It would be a great way to meet people just like you.”

Stiles suppressed a sigh but tried to remain polite, “Thanks, Allison. I’ll think about it. Really.” He was already moving in the direction of his usual spot, “I’m working on a conference paper, though, so don’t count on it.” His best friend Lydia always warned him it wasn’t possible for one witch to lie to another, but that had never stopped Stiles from trying.

Allison made a sympathetic noise, but her eyes followed him to his seat across the room. 

The book that had made Stiles’s stomach drop sat on top of the pile. Stamped in gilt on the spine was a symbol Stiles didn’t recognize -- one of three lines connecting in a circle. The book, labeled  _ B.782 _ , had been part of a collection donated to the library in the early nineteenth century by an unknown donor. Regardless, the texts in the rest of the collection were of great interest to Stiles’s research on folklore, and had been very helpful so far. This was the only book he had yet to look at during is week in Beacon Hills.

He reached out, touching the red leather. A mild shock had him withdrawing his fingers quickly, but not fast enough. A tingling sensation traveled up his arms, lifting his skin into tiny goosebumps across his shoulders, tensing the muscles in his back. 

The sensation receded after a moment, but left behind a hollow feeling in the middle of Stiles’s chest. Shaken, he stepped away from the library table. 

Even at a distance, the book was threatening Stiles -- challenging the walls he’d erected since high school to separate himself from magic. He’d worked hard to remove himself from his heritage, a heritage he’d inherited from his mother who’d passed when he was eleven. After her death, his magic had seemed like a way to be closer to her. Now it seemed like a burden, a curse, something he couldn’t control and only sought to harm those around him. 

He’d graduated early at sixteen, gotten into one of the best schools on the other side of the country and flourished there. No one on the East Coast knew who he was, or who his mother was. He was finally allowed to just be Stiles. 

Plain normal Stiles.

Well, not entirely normal. 

He’d been a precocious child, learning to talk and read before other children his age. Aided by a photographic memory, schoolwork was a place where his mother’s legacy wasn’t relevant. At twenty, he’d graduated college and took a year abroad, working in England at a museum in London. There, he’d fallen in love with the cobbled streets, the people, and even the weather. Being in Europe had further distanced him from his mother, and the memories of how broken his magic had become. He returned to the US and started graduate school and now two years later was currently working on a research sabbatical, writing a paper that would ensure him a doctorate and a place of employment in one of the best universities in the country. 

His life was finally his own. Despite his human father’s view that his magic was a gift, Stiles had learned to suppress it. Ignore it. Learned to live without it. In fact, he hadn’t used magic in over a decade, not counting the time his washing machine wouldn’t stop filling and threatened to flood his small apartment in D.C.

The book sitting in front of him, however, threatened to change all of that. 

Grabbing the book, Stiles ignored the strange smell and the burning sensation at his fingertips. His fingers trembled when he loosened the small brass clips that held the book closed.

The book let out a soft sigh.

Stiles nearly jumped at the sound, then, casting a quick glance over his shoulder, assured himself that the room was still empty, save Allison Argent who was still huddled over her desk. 

He swallowed thickly and turned on his laptop, preparing to take notes. Then, he prepared himself to open the book. 

It was difficult to lift the cover, despite the loosened clasps, as if it were stuck to the pages below. Swearing under his breath, Stiles rested his hand flat on the leather for a moment, hoping that B.782 simply needed chance to know him. 

It wasn’t magic, he told himself, a perfectly normal thing to do.

His palm tingled, much as his skin would when a witch looked at him, and the tension left the book. After that it was easy to lift the cover.

The first page was rough paper. On the second sheet, which was parchment, were the words  _ Traité Anecdotique des Monstres  _ in cursive script.

Stiles slammed the book shut. 

The sound had Allison Argent snapping her head up, looking over at him curiously. Stiles gave her, what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and hunched back down over the book, running a shaky hand through his hair. 

_ Traité Anecdotique des Monstres.  _

Translation. Anecdotal Treatise of Monsters. 

Further translation. A bestiary. 

Stiles mind whirled. A bestiary?  _ A bestiary _ ? In Beacon Hills University Library? Authentic bestiaries were rare finds, let alone at a small college in California. What on earth was one doing here? Let alone hiding in a seemingly inconspicuous collection of American folktales and practically oozing with magic.

Without touching it, he examined the cover again. There was no clue as to where it came from, besides the strange symbol on the spine. Taking his pencil, he lifted the cover open again and let the book fall open to the title page where, again, he found no signature, no notion of where the book came from.

_ Odd, _ he thought. Bestiaries were usually handed down through generations of packs or hunter clans. This gave the appearance that the book had appeared from nowhere and belonged to nobody.

_ That can’t be true, _ he thought furiously, chastising himself,  _ someone collected the information and wrote it down.  _

But who?

Holding his breath, Stiles turned the next page and found the bestiary’s first entry in the same cursive print: _ Loup _ .

_ Yea, yea, yea, _ Stiles thought flipping gently through the anatomical illustrated drawings of werewolves. Growing up in Beacon Hills, Stiles had been surrounded by werewolves. The pack that called Beacon Hills home -- the Hales -- was powerful and heavily integrated into the town’s history.

Hence the name of the reading room.

The next section of the book was titled  _ Sorcière _ , followed by  _ Fée  _ and then  _ Démons _ . It was at the last section that Stiles paused, heart pounding in his chest. After a lengthy description of the half-demon children of the angel Fiq, there was a small, brief passage labeled  _ Le vide _ .

The Void. A type of demon Stiles was intimately familiar with. 

Stiles carefully closed the book a final time, breathing a sigh of relief when the small golden clasps clicked shut.  

He stared at B.782 for a few moments. His fingers wanted to stray back and touch the red leather, but Stiles resisted, tucking them under his thighs just to be sure. 

He would return the book. He didn’t need it, nor did he want it. It wouldn’t contribute anything of value to his research. And he’d made a pact with himself long ago to resist the tides of magic. By opening B.782 he’d breached the wall that divided his magic from his scholarship. But back on the right side of it again, Stiles was more determined than ever to remain there.

He packed up his computer and notes and picked up the stack of books, carefully putting the bestiary on the bottom. 

Mercifully, Allison wasn’t at her desk when he left the reading room.

“Finished?” Isaac asked when he reached the call desk.

Stiles nodded mutely, “I’d like to reserve the top three for Monday.”

“And the fourth?”

“I’m done with it.” Stiles blurted, pushing the book towards him, “You can send it back to the stacks.”

As Isaac tucked the stack onto the conveyor belt that would send the books back to sorting, Stiles felt the air around him constrict and shimmer for a split second. It left Stiles blinking in surprise, before turning on his heel and practically running for the door.

_ It’s nothing, _ Stiles thought resolutely as he made his way out of the library,  _ It doesn’t mean anything. _

_ Are you sure? _ whispered a long ignored voice.

 

+++

The clock tower that sat at the edge of Beacon Hills Town square struck six as Stiles exited the University campus. It was quiet for that time of night, of which Stiles was thankful for. People in town still reacted to him the way they had when he was fifteen, despite his father being the much adored Sheriff. 

_ “What a pity that poor Sheriff Stilinski ended up with a troubled son like he did.” _

_ “Boy loses his mother like that is bound to go crazy.” _

If it hadn’t been for the rare collection of books housed within BHU library, Stiles would have never returned to Beacon Hills. A college town with a small town feel, everyone local knew everything there was to know about other locals. It had been stifling growing up in such a picturesque, Hallmark-worthy town that celebrated the Fourth of July with a pie baking contest and a parade down Main Street.

His father still lived at the edge of town, near the woods, in the house Stiles had grown up in. A local boy, Sheriff John Stilinski had grown up in Beacon Hills and met his future wife Claudia at a town mixer. Claudia, who, for some inexplicable reason had ended up Beacon Hills while on a road trip with some friends, was the daughter of Polish immigrants and was studying linguistics at a University in San Francisco. When she met John, she abandoned her studies and set up house right there in Beacon Hills. As he got older, Stiles had been unable to understand why his bright, vibrant, witch of a mother had preferred small town life to that of a city. 

Or why she’d chosen a human husband.

Not that he had anything against humans, on the contrary. Stiles had been trying to pass as human for the past ten years. But supernatural creatures didn’t usually mate with humans, for one very specific reason, the very reason that Stiles himself was such an anomaly.

Or a freak, he sometimes thought.

Power couldn’t be passed through human genes. Yet, Stiles himself was technically half human, and he had power --  _ too much _ power. It was why, after his mother died and his magic started to really emerge, he’d gained the attention of the Hale Alpha. 

The same Alpha who’d tried to stifle his power. The same Alpha who’d then locked it inside of Stiles when his power burst out and nearly killed one of his classmates.

He drove his mother’s beat up blue Jeep -- something his dad kept around in the garage in case Stiles ever wanted it -- through town and out onto one of the county roads, leading towards his father’s home, all the while thinking about his research and  _ not _ the mysterious B.782. 

He hoped his father was home, as they hadn’t really had time to reconnect much since Stiles’s return. His father’s advice and services at the station were high in demand, and Stiles had spent almost every waking minute of his days at the University Library.

As he turned down the gravel drive, however, he was disappointed to see no cop car in sight. 

Stiles sighed, pulling up to the garage and cutting the engine. Their reunion had been strenuous, to say the least, but he’d hoped for at least a chance to put things right with his father. Since leaving for college at sixteen, Stiles hadn’t been back home, and he could count on one hand the amount of time his father had come to visit him out east. He knew his father loved him, he did, but the Sheriff simply didn’t understand him. He didn’t comprehend why Stiles was so afraid to use his magic when Claudia’s had always appeared to be this wonderous thing, otherworldly gift.

_ That’s because mom didn’t have a demon living inside her head, _ Stiles thought, snorting. 

Letting himself in the backdoor, Stiles beelined for the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine from the counter and a glass from the pantry. Pouring himself a large amount, he watched the red liquid swirl in the glass and waited for the phone call he knew, inevitably, would come. 

Right on cue, his phone went off, and he brought both wine glass and bottle to the living room with him and put the phone on speaker.

“What happened?” demanded the tinny voice from across the sea.

“Nothing happened,” he told her. He’d met Lydia Martin while working in England. She too had been there to study, her research focused more on pagan Irish folklore. She’d pegged him for a witch upon sight, and, through many glasses of wine, Stiles had discovered she came from a long line of Fey Folk, specifically Banshee, and had a werewolf boyfriend named Jackson.

She’d been his best -- and often times only -- friend the past couple years and he missed her dreadfully.

“Was that Argent witch bothering you again?”

Stiles sighed and set about starting a fire in the living room fireplace. The evening had brought a chill inside the old house, and he hadn’t had enough wine to warm up yet.

“She doesn’t bother me, per say. She just…” he paused, handling the wood, “Wants me to participate. Mabon is coming up.”

“Yes, I’m aware, Stiles. We call it  _ Meán Fómhair _ .”

Stiles rolled his eyes. Though Lydia wasn’t a witch, per say, her family did keep with the Celtic sabbats. 

“I found something at the library,” he explained to her, sitting back in one of the armchairs that flanked the fireplace, taking up his glass of wine, “Something that surprised me.”

“Porn?” she suggested cheekily

Stiles snorted, “No.”

“I can see how that would surprise you,” Lydia said in mock seriousness, “Given that you haven’t gotten laid in quite some time.”

“Not all of us are fortunate enough to have sexy werewolf boyfriends.”

“Too true.”

Stiles swirled the wine around in his glass. It was good, from a vineyard nearby that he’d stopped at on his way home. The red tasted oakey with sparks of cinnamon that bit at his tongue, perfect for a fall night.

“So what’s got you freaked?” Lydia asked, her tone of concern breaking his thoughts, “I woke up from a dream of you walking through a forest holding nothing but a baseball bat.”

Stiles made a face, “A baseball bat?”

Lydia hummed, “I’m still figuring out what that means. Perhaps it represents your masculinity. Or there lack of.”

“Careful, Martin.” he growled, taking another sip, “I found a bestiary.”

He waited for his friend to respond, swirling the wine around in his glass and took another sip.

“In Beacon Hills?” she finally said in disbelief, “You have all the fucking luck, don’t you?”

He responded dryly, “Apparently.” 

“What did it look like? How old is it? Where did it come from?”

He responded to each question dutifully, explaining with frustration how he was unable to get a date or author on the text.

“Well you would have, if you’d just --”

“Nope.” he cut her off, “Not a chance.”

“Stiles, your magic --”

“No.” he said with finality, “And you know why, Lyds.”

She sighed, and even from across the ocean he could picture her rolling her unnervingly green eyes, “Alright. Was I in it?”

Stiles nodded, “Of course.”

Lydia was quiet a moment, “Were you?”

It was Stiles’s turn to be quiet. He watched the fire flicker and grow in the fireplace, the embers sparking off the wood but never coming quite close to hitting him. It was an strange analogy, he thought, he’d kept himself away from the embers that had burned him here in Beacon Hills for so long. Now with the emergence of this book, he wondered how long it would take for the flames ignite once again. 

“Yes,” he told her quietly.

“Have you ever found yourself in a bestiary before?” She paused, “In any texts before?”

“No,” he told her honestly, “The only reason I even have a name for it is because of Alpha Hale --”

“That bitch.”

“Lydia,” he reprimanded her, “What she did was right. I was an out of control teenager and I nearly killed a classmate.”

“You were a scared kid who needed help, not punishment.”

_ That may be true _ , he silently agreed with her. But he hadn’t felt out of control. In fact, the week he’d spent under the influence of his power he’d never felt more right, more certain of himself. Which scared Stiles even more now, because it meant his true self was a monster. 

A monster dressed up in a human facade.

“What are you going to do?”

Stiles sighed, “Nothing. I returned the book. There was something off about it.”

“Off? Like, enchanted?”

“No,” Stiles shook his head, “Maybe. I’m not sure. I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

They changed topics, Stiles asking questions about Lydia’s research. He spent the next half hour listening to her updates and when they finally said goodbye it was with a heavy feeling in his chest that Stiles hung up the phone. He washed out his wine glass in the sink, checking his texting app for any updates from his dad.

He tried to feel surprised that there were none, but during his stay at home he’d come to realize that his father had moved on in life without him. 

_ Only a couple more days _ , he told himself as he trudged up the stairs,  _ then I can get the hell out of here. _


	2. The Werewolf

The clock tower struck seven times. Night didn’t follow twilight as slowly as it would have a few months ago, but the transformation was still lingering. The library staff had turned on the lamps only thirty minutes before, casting small pools of gold in the gray light. 

It was the twenty-first of September, and all over Beacon Hills -- and the world -- witches would be gathering on the eve of the autumn equinox to celebrate Mabon and greet the impending darkness of winter. Given the Wiccan holiday, the library was a ghost town and Allison Argent was nowhere to be found in the library. Having left earlier that afternoon, no doubt to prepare for celebrations, the Argent witch had come by Stiles’s desk to extend one last invitation, which Stiles had declined. 

At the thought of what his fellow witches might be eating somewhere in Beacon Hills, however, Stiles’s stomach growled. He’d been in the library since half past nine that morning, with only a short break for lunch. 

Stiles had spent the afternoon happily reading and working on his paper, pleased with the amount of work he was getting done. At this rate, he may even be able to leave Beacon Hills earlier than he’d thought, and after another morning of his father and him awkwardly moving around each other in their small kitchen, Stiles was ready to go.

Looking down at his list of notes, he’d circled one follow up question he’d wanted to solve before leaving that evening. The answer was in an eccentric periodical, shelved on one of the bookcases that stretched up toward the room’s high ceilings. Pushing back his chair, Stiles took his time locating the volume, and when he did he swore softly. For, even as tall as he was, the book had been placed high up on a dusty shelf. 

_ Out of sight, out of mind, _ Stiles thought bitterly, looking around for the library’s step stool, which was of course missing. The library was notoriously short on such practical items, and it would easily take fifteen minutes to locate one. He hesitated. Even though he’d held a bewitched book, Stiles resisted considerable temptations to work further magic the day before. Besides, no one would see. 

Despite his rationalization, his skin prickled with anxiety at the thought of using his own magic. He didn’t break his rules very often, and Stiles kept mental accounts of the situations that had spurred him to turn to magic for assistance. This was the third time this year, including putting a spell on the malfunctioning washing machine and touching B. 782. Not bad for the end of September, but it wasn’t a personal best either.

Stiles took a deep breath, held up his hand, and imagined the book in it. 

The periodical slid backwards four inches, tipped at an angle as if an invisible hand were pulling it down, and fell into his open palm with a soft thwack. Once there, it flopped open to the page Stiles needed. 

It had taken three seconds. Stiles let out another breath to exhale some of the guilt. Suddenly, two warm patches bloomed between his shoulder blades, causing Stiles to shut his eyes quickly and swear softly.

He’d been seen, and not by a human observer. 

When one witch studies another, the touch of their eyes tingles. Witches aren’t the only creatures sharing the world with humans, however. There are Fae -- creative, artistic creatures who walk a tightrope between madness and genius. “Models and serial killers,” was how Lydia described the strange, perplexing race she herself belonged to. And there are  _ Loups _ \-- werewolves -- ancient and grounded, one of the oldest races known to this earth. 

When a Fae takes a look, Stiles felt the slight, gentle pressure of a kiss. But when a werewolf stares, it feels too hot, too focused, like a hunter eyeing fragile prey. 

Stiles mentally shuffled through the readers in the  Ingrid Hale Reading Room. Witches and Fae are far more typical in libraries. Allison Argent had been in today, studying her texts with a magnifying glass. And there were definitely two Fae in the Arts reference room. Both had looked up dazed, skin smooth and perfect, eyes erie bright, as Stiles had walked past on his way out for coffee. One told him to bring him back a latte, which was some indication of how immersed she was in whatever madness gripped her in the moment. 

No, it was a werewolf that watched him now. And given his tenacious history with the pack that called Beacon Hills home, Stiles was in no mood to encounter whoever it was.

He clutched his ill-gotten periodical, and turned to face the witness. He was in the shadows on the opposite side of the rom in front of the palengraphy reference books, lounging against one of the graceful wooden pillars that held up the room. There was an open book in his hand, and Stiles belatedly realized he recognized him.

Granted, the last time they’d seen each other they were both teenagers and Stiles was tied to a chair and being tortured by his alpha, but still, it was hard to forget a guy like Derek Hale. 

He was tall now -- well over six foot and the exact opposite of slight. Broad shoulders narrowed into slender hips, which flowed into lean, muscular legs. His hands were striking long and agile, a mark of physiological delicacy that made Stiles’s eyes drift back to them to figure out how they could belong to such a large man. 

As Stiles swept his eyes over Derek, his eyes were fixed on Stiles. From across the room, they seemed darker than Stiles remembered, and stared from under thick, black eyebrows, one of them lifted in a curve that suggested a question mark. His face was annoyingly sticking, all distinct planes and surfaces, narrow cheekbones and a wide mouth. 

But the most unnerving thing about him was not his physical perfection. No, it was what Stiles had been afraid of all those years ago, and made his heart thump uncomfortably in his chest even still. It was Derek’s feral combination of strength, agility and keen intelligence that was palpable even across the room. 

Derek Hale was the perfect werewolf specimen, and the demon locked in the back of Stiles’s brain howled to challenge it. 

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache blooming across his temple. Derek Hale smiled at him, and thought it was polite, Stiles felt his blood run cold at the sight of it. Because Derek had caught him doing magic, something that the Alpha of Beacon Hills had not permitted Stiles to do. 

The mere thought of having to explain himself sent an instinctive rush of adrenaline through his body. All Stiles could think of was to get out, and he eyed the distance between himself and his bag back on his desk, wondering if he should just run and leave everything behind.

_ You’re not a coward, _ he told himself, steeling himself for the short journey back to his desk, j _ ust pack up your things and go. He probably won’t even bother talking to you. Just run along home to tell mommy about the bad demon witch in the library.  _

Stiles started to move, not taking into regard the edge of a chair just to his side, and stumbled halfway back towards his desk.

Of course, the werewolf was there to catch him.

His fingers were too warm, and his arms felt steelier than flesh and bone. The scent of evergreen and pine filled the air. He set Stiles to his feet, picking up the eccentric periodical from the floor and handed back to him, “Stiles Stilinski?”

Brimming with nerves, Stiles nodded.

“You look different.”

Stiles resisted the urge roll his eyes, “Ten years and puberty will do that.”

Again Derek gave him a small smile and really, what was the point of all this? If Derek was going to execute him in the middle of a room he will undoubtedly inherit someday Stiles would rather he get it over with.

Something must have said so on his face, because Derek coughed and straighten his shoulders, stepping back slightly, “I’ve been following your work. You’re paper on the symbolism behind tribal folklore was very well written.”

Stiles felt his eyes widen. It was not possible that Derek Hale was complimenting him on his academic achievements. It just wasn’t. 

Unless the wolf was subtly hinting that he’d been keeping tables on Stiles all these years.

“Thank you,” Stiles said slowly, eyeing him with suspicion. 

Derek’s unnatural green eyes floated back to Stiles’s, “Would you like to come over for dinner?”

Stiles felt his mouth drop open. Dinner? Was he serious? Stiles asked him as much.

Derek shrugged, “You’re only in town a couple days, right?” 

Stiles nodded, his stomach sinking, “I didn’t think I had to ask for permission to be here.”

Derek’s brow furrowed, “You don’t. Why do you think you do?”

Stiles sighed, suddenly very tired and very done with the conversation, “Look, as you said, I’m only going to be here a couple more days. I’m not bothering anybody. And what you saw me do over there,” he pointed to the bookcase, “Hardly counts as anything threatening. Tell your alpha I’ll be out of her territory by the weekend.”

Derek’s face was blank, his eyes intent on Stiles, “Summoning that book was hardly unthreatening, Stiles.” 

Stiles flailed, “It was a  _ simple _ summoning!” Stiles waved the periodical between them, “And an unimportant one at that.” He thrust the book into Derek’s chest, moving his hand away before Derek’s hand touched his, “Here, take it. If it’s that important to you, you can have it.’

He began to pack up his stuff, grumbling angrily under his breath, all the while ignoring the werewolf who was standing  _ too close _ behind him. 

Gathering his texts and bag, Stiles walked quickly to the check out desk, the night proctor glancing down at his watch as Stiles returned the manuscripts.

He picked up the stack of gray cardboard boxes that held the manuscripts, “Will you need these tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Stiles said boldy, hoping the werewolf he’d left behind at his desk didn’t hear the fear pumping through his heart, “ _ Tomorrow _ .”

  
  


+++

No matter what he told himself, his drive home was faster than usual. The gloom settling over the little college town of Beacon Hills, a gloom that came with twilight and mist, was a spooky proposition at the best of times. The tension didn’t leave his body until the back door of his father’s house was shut and locked behind him. His father was spending the evening at a local fish fry and wouldn’t be home until late, so once again Stiles was left home alone. 

In the kitchen he made two slices of toast and drank an entire glass of cold water, his eyes trained to the window over the sink where outside the sky grew darker and more void of light. 

Exhaustion trained down on his shoulders, and slipping through the rooms he turned off all the lights before heading upstairs. Upon entering his bedroom, he was out of his grimey clothes in a matter of minutes -- how does one get so filthy sitting in a library -- and into an old pair of stretched out track pants. 

His old bed felt welcoming underneath him, comforting enough that he almost convinced himself that a phone call to Lydia wasn’t necessary. But the water had not been able to remove the vestiges of pine and evergreen from his tongue, and he dialed the number. 

“I’ve been waiting for your call,” were the first words he heard.

Fae.  _ Swear to god _ .

Stiles sighed, “Lyds, I’m fine.”

“All signs to the contrary,” he could hear Lydia click her tongue, “Kira the Cat has been skittish all evening, and I had that dream about you lost in the woods again.”

The real problem was the damn cat. Kira the Cat was Lydia’s baby and picked up any tension within the Lydia’s circle of loved ones with an uncanny precision. “I’m fine,” Stiles said again, “I had an unexpected encounter in the library tonight, that’s all.”

A click told him that Jackson had picked up the extension, “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating that witchy holiday? What’s it called? May-beeon?”

“ _ Meán Fómhair,”  _ Lydia corrected her boyfriend, “And he was invited by that Argent witch but he turned her down.”

“Of course he did.”

“Hi, still here.” Stiles said, his voice sounding harassed.

“You’re never going to get laid if you turn everyone down, Stilinski,” Jackson told him.

“I’m aware of that, Jackson, thank you. I’m also not very interested.”

He could hear Jackson shrug, “Fine, die alone. See if we care.”

A sudden thwack told Stiles that Lydia had thrown something at her boyfriend.

“Who rattled your cage?” Lydia asked him, back on the line.

Stiles was silent, chewing on the nail of his thumb.

“Stiles?” Jackson prompted, “What happened?”

“Derek Hale. He um,” Stiles paused, rubbing the back of his neck and sitting up in bed, crossing his legs, “He was in the library and came to talk to me.”

The sounds of Jackson’s growls reverberated across the line. “What did he want?” Lydia asked sharply.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Stiles answered honestly, “I think he’s been keeping tabs on me. He wasn’t necessarily threatening but he --” Stiles paused, “I think he was sent as a warning.”

“A warning for what?” Jackson snapped, “You have every right to be there.”

“C’mon,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes, “You know what they think of me. You know that they --” he paused, unable to truly describe what he thought the Hales thought of him.

“They’re afraid of you, Stiles.” Lydia told him plainly, “What you are is rare and magnificent and because of that they’re afraid.”

Stiles sighed shakily, “They’re right to be.”

“Maybe when you were younger,” Lydia agreed, “But not anymore. You’ve proven that you have amazing self control. That should count for something.”

It should, Stiles agreed silently, but with the Hales that wasn’t always true. They hit first and asked questions later. To say that Stiles was a normal, stable guy didn’t mean squat when they’d seen him once as a murderous, out of control teenager. 

And for some reason, that made more sense to Stiles than Derek Hale asking him out to dinner. He knew he was a monster, had accepted that long ago.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles told them, shaking himself out of his reverie, “I’ll be gone in a couple days and I’ll never have to come back.”

Lydia was quiet.

“Lyds?”

“Time will tell.” 

Lydia wasn’t as good at seeing the future as her famous grandmother had been, but something was niggling at her. Convincing a Fae to share a vague premonition was almost impossible. She wasn’t going to tell Stiles was worried her about him being in Beacon Hills.

Not yet.

 

+++

 

Derek Hale sat in the shadows outside the Stilinski residence, his back resting against the back of an old oak tree. 

The demon witch appeared, getting himself another glass of water in the small kitchen. His dark eyes stared through the window, and for a moment Derek suspected he lost himself in the expanse void of darkness that lay thick upon the yard. He wouldn’t be able to help it, Derek surmised. Stiles’s soul was one that craved darkness. 

Once again the kitchen light went out and Derek listened as Stiles crept back to his bedroom on the second floor. Derek rose swiftly to his feet and reached up to climb the old oak, quickly and quietly like a cat. Once settled on a thick branch, Derek craned his neck to peer into the window. 

Stilinski was reading. In repose his face looked different, Derek reflected. His head bobbed as he slid against the bed pillows with a soft sigh of exhaustion. Soon the sound of regular breathing told Derek he was asleep. 

Swinging down, Derek crept around the house to the backdoor and grabbed the spare key from underneath the potted plant. Quietly unlocking the door, Derek snuck inside, all the while keeping an ear trained towards the demon witch’s steady, sleeping heartbeat. 

He searched the stacks of books Stiles had left on the dining room table as well as the ones in the living room, searched through scattered notes and creased notebooks, searched frantically for a text he was beginning to realize wasn’t here. He had to know if B.782 was still in Stilinski’s possession. He hadn’t been able to search his desk at the library, but a quick glance suggested that it wasn’t in the stack he’d be studying today. 

Still, there was no chance that a witch -- a demon witch, for that matter -- would have let the volumn slip through his fingers. With inaudible steps, Derek traveled through the small rooms, up the stairs and stopped just before the open door of Stilinski’s bedroom. 

The witch’s eyelids were twitching as if he were watching a movie only he could see. One of his hands was drawn into a fist, and every once in a while his legs twitched as if dancing. His face, however, was serene, completely unaware of what the rest of his body was doing. 

Something wasn’t right. Derek had sensed it from the moment he’d saw Stiles in the library. It had been years since he’d laid eyes on the witch, but Derek had recognized him instantly. He no longer gave off the suffocating scent of sulfur, in fact, Stiles gave off no scent at all. 

He’s hiding something, the werewolf thought, something more than the lost book.

Derek turned away, seeking the desk propped up against the wall beneath the window. As he took a step toward it, he smelled electricity and froze.

Dark shadows were seeping from Stiles’s body -- all around the edges, escaping from her pores. The shadows were wispy and gray, not frightening but not all together fascinating either. At first, it formed a cloudlike shroud that clung to him for a few minutes.

For a moment, Stiles seemed enveloped in shadow.

Derek shook his head in disbelief -- Stiles’s magic had been locked up, Deaton made sure of that. Yet here he was, seeping shadows into his bedroom carpet, seemingly unaware. 

It made the rumors of his summoning B.782 all the more believable. 

Allison Argent had said Stiles summoned the book without magic, but Derek had seen it in the library, and now watched it wash through her with evident intensity. He suspected Stiles wasn’t as innocent as he’d made everyone believe these past ten years. 

There was a flash of light coming through the window, startling Derek. The sheriff must be home, he thought, moving quickly down the stairs and back through the backdoor without being seen. 

If the book wasn’t in the witch’s house, then it was still in the library. 

The werewolf padded through the backyard, listening to the Sheriff unload himself from the cruiser, and melted into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and kudos = love.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @agathasyouruncle. I post cool things. About this story. Seriously.


	3. The Voice

Four hours later Stiles woke on top of his duvet, book in hand. At some point he’d kicked off the thin Afgan his mother had knit many years ago. Stretching, he felt his spin crack in too many spots, and he lay, staring blearily up at the ceiling, finding that he was dreading going to the library that day.

He knew Derek Hale would be there, why wouldn’t he be? After Stiles’s little display last night, he was sure the werewolf would be keeping a vigilant eye on him for the rest of his time in Beacon Hills. Stiles should have just coughed up an apology and scooted out of the library. But no, as always, he had to poke the bear.

 _Or the wolf, rather,_ he corrected himself.

After a shower and a quick bite of toast, Stiles was on the road back towards town. He pulled into the University Library parking lot just as Isaac was unlocking the doors. He seemed frazzled, and Stiles pointed out as much.

“One of the Hales is studying here today,” Isaac said, blowing out his cheeks, “I think Dr. Blake is going to have an aneurism.”

Stiles halted in his tracks, “Hale? Which one?”

“Derek, I think. He’s in law school or something like that,” Isaac shrugged, “Blake always makes a big to-do whenever one of the Hale kids are here. She practically rolled out a red carpet when the oldest showed up last time.”

Stiles swallowed thickly and followed the scarf-wearing librarian inside, “Afraid she’ll lose their patronage?”

Isaac shook his head, “I can’t honestly say. The library is a big success. We are never lacking in patrons. Not all university libraries can make that claim.”

Stiles nodded, lost in thought. As they neared the desk, he handed Isaac the list of books he wanted for the day, waited patiently for the librarian to retrieve them, and hastily retreated to his usual spot in the Ingrid Hale Reading room.

Setting down his stack of books, Stiles began to unpack his bag when there was a disturbance in the seat across from him. Looking up, he saw Derek Hale in the process of making himself comfortable, followed by Dr. Jennifer Blake, the University Library head librarian, holding what Stiles could only assume was Derek’s requested hoard.

“Here you go, Mr. Hale.” Blake breathed in obvious appeasement, “Please let myself or my staff know if there is anything more we can do to help.”

Derek flashed her a charming smile, and Stiles’s stomach rolled, “Thank you, Jennifer, I will.”

Stiles shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the werewolf across from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Derek pass a glance over his head.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting somewhere else?” Stiles suggested in a low voice, not looking up.

“I’m perfectly fine where I am,” Derek told him pleasantly, “Am I bothering you?”

Stiles finally looked up, “I’m just surprised you’d want to sit this close to me.”

Derek tilted his head, feigning innocence.

Stiles huffed and looked back down at his materials, further encouraged to thoroughly ignoring the creature across from him.

Over the next hour and a half, Stiles read the first thirty pages of his first source thirty times. Derek, however, seemed to get a prodigious amount done, covering pages of creamy white paper with rapid strokes of handwritten notes -- who does that anyways?

Every so often he would turn over a sheet with a rustle that set Stiles’s teeth on edge and begin once more. Occasionally Dr. Blake drifted through the room, maybe waiting to see if she could catch Derek’s attention.

The werewolf kept writing.

Stiles glared at both of them.

At 10:45 there was a familiar tingle when Allison Argent bustled into the Ingrid Hale Reading Room. She started towards Stiles -- only to stop in her tracks to stare at Derek Hale. The wolf tilted his head towards the witch in greeting. Stiles watched the exchange with open curiosity, then observed in surprise when Allison scampered back out of the room.

 _Huh,_ Stiles thought. He’d never known Allison to scare easy.

A couple minutes later, the caffeine-addicted fae from the day before wandered in, repeatedly twirling a set of white plastic headphones around her fingers. The fae saw Stiles, nodded at Derek, then sat down at one of the computers in the center of the room. A sign was taped to the screen: OUT OF ORDER. The fae remained there for the next several hours, glancing over her shoulder and then at the ceiling periodically as if trying to figure out where she was and how she’d gotten there.

Stiles turned his attention back to his work, Derek’s eyes hot on the top of his head.

At 12:40, two hot patches bloomed between his shoulder blades and really, that was the last straw. Stiles stood abruptly and whirled around, frightening an old, cherubic-looking werewolf with an armful of pre-modern art books just as he was lowering himself into a chair that was much too small for him. He let out a squawk at the sudden, unwanted attention from Stiles. At the sight of Derek, his face turned red and with an apologetic bow, flet the room.

Over the course of the afternoon, a few humans and three more creatures entered the Ingrid Hale Reading Room.

One in particular was a blind man who stood in a full beam of sunlight, and appeared to stare raptly at the reading room windows before turning his eyes to Stiles. He was dressed in academic garb -- brown tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, corduroy pants in a slightly jarring tone of green, and a cotton shirt with a button down collar and ink stains on the pocket. Stiles was just about to dismiss him as another scholar, when his skin started to tingle, telling him that the blind man was a witch.

Still, he was a stranger to Stiles, and he returned his attention to his work.

That is, until a gentle sensation of pressure on the back of his skull made it impossible to keep reading.

The pressure flitted to his ears, growing in intensity as it wrapped around his forehead, and his stomach clenched in panic. This was no longer a silent greeting, but a threat.

 _Why though,_ Stiles thought frantically, _would be be threatening me?_

The witch strolled towards where Stiles and Derek were sitting with apparent casualness, his walking stick trailing softly on the floor in front of him.

As he approached, a voice whispered in Stiles’s now throbbing head. It was too faint to distinguish the words, but Stiles was sure it was coming from the male witch.

But who on earth was he?

Stiles’s breath became shallow. _Get the hell out of my head_ , he said fiercely if silently, touching his forehead.

The demon inside him giggled at the intruder, _There’s no room for you in here_.

The witch stopped short, and Derek Hale moved so quickly Stiles didn’t see him round the desk. In an instant he was standing with one hand on the back of Stiles’s chair and the other resting on the surface in front of him. His broad shoulders were curved around Stiles in a way that made his blood pump thick in his throat.

“Are you alright?” the wolf asked

“I’m fine.” Stiles gritted out with a shaking voice, utterly confused by a situation where a werewolf would need to protect him from another witch.

Nearby, a human reader craned her neck to see what all the fuss was about. She stood, her brow creased.

“Leave me alone,” Stiles told the werewolf, with clenched teeth, “The humans have noticed us.”

Derek straightened to his full height but kept his back to the male witch and his body angled between us like some sort of avenging angel.

“Ah, my mistake,” the witch murmured from behind Derek, “I thought this seat was available. Excuse me.” Soft steps and the sound of the walking stick clacking against nearby desks retreated into the distance, and the pressure in Stiles’s head gradually subsided.

A slight breeze stirred as the wolf’s warm hand reached towards Stiles’s shoulder, stopped, and returned to the back of the chair. Derek leaned over, “You look pale,” he said, his voice soft and low.

“I always look pale.”

“Would you like me to take you home?”

Indignation surged through Stiles, and he looked up to meet Derek’s eyes, “No.”

“Stiles, I really think you should let me take you home.”

“No.” Stiles’s voice dipped lower, to an octave that wasn’t quite his own. He shut his eyes and tried to get a grip on himself, feeling the demon twirl in his chest, “I won’t be driven out of this library -- not by you, not by anyone.”

Derek’s face was disconcertingly close. He took in a slow breath, and once again there was a powerful scent of pine that drifted over Stiles. He resisted the urge to lean in closer and drown himself in that fresh smell.

The remained of the afternoon was spent in silence, Derek in his designated spot across the table from Stiles.

By three, Stiles’s nerves were so frayed that he could no longer concentrate. The day was lost.

Gathering his scattered belongings, he returned his research materials to their boxes before moving to the front desk.

“Going home?” Derek asked, his tone mild but his eyes glittering.

“Yes.” Stiles snapped.

The werewolf’s face went carefully blank.

Every creature in the library watched as Stiles made his way out. Isaac looked as his watch in surprise when Stiles returned the manuscript boxes.

“Done already?” the curly-haired man asked in disbelief.

“A little too crowded in here for me today.” Stiles told him before making a hasty exist.

 

+++

He needed to burn off the anxiety.

Since the Hales had locked the demon inside his brain, Stiles had always had an overflow of energy -- of adrenaline -- coursing through his body. In college he’d taken up running, which was truly the best sort of physical regime for a fund-struggling academic. Running was cheap -- you could run anywhere. All you needed was the right pair of shoes.

Said beaten up running shoes Stiles pulled onto his feet the moment he got home that afternoon.

The woods that stretched behind the his dad’s house Stiles knew well. He’d spent many early mornings and twilight afternoons out there with his mother, learning what types of plants did what, listening to the voices that traveled on the wind, seeking out the playful spirits that made the woods their home.

Since highschool Stiles ignored all that. Now he used the woods only for it’s trails, and only to release the physical energy the demon that he harbored built up inside his chest.

He stretched out on the back porch then took off towards the forest at a slow steady pace through the back lawn. Once he entered the forest properly, he felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders.

He’d always felt like that, like out in the woods was where he truly belonged.

The woods that surrounded Beacon Hills was old, and to the credit of the Beacon Hills Forestry Coalition, largely untouched. In the late sixties there was a movement to install dirt trails so that the public could explore the woods safely, but those trails only touched ten percent of the woods. The other ninety percent stretched far back towards the Cascade Mountains and on towards Canada.

The trees were old and stood proudly, draping their branches like giant arms above Stiles’s head in a heightened embrace. The air smelled earthy, fresh. Like pine and dirt.

Like Derek Hale.

His feet pounded on the dirt ground below him, and he began thinking about his encounter with the threatening male witch that afternoon, and how Derek had reacted.

How...protective he’d been of Stiles.

 _Or possessive,_ the demon whispered jealousy.

Stiles picked up the pace.

Why had the man threatened him? Had all those creatures really followed Derek in that morning? Or was something else going on, something Stiles wasn’t picking up on yet?

He was flying through the woods by now, his feet feeling like they were flying across the dirt. His breath came in short, controlled pants, and he pumped his arms rhythmically, enjoying the warmth that spread through his body, how his legs felt loose and ---

_Stiles._

Like lead had fastened around his ankles, Stiles halted. The voice was unfamiliar to him, and wasn’t trying to invade his mind like the witch earlier. The demon inside was quite, listening along with him.

_Stiles?_

He looked around. The forest was quiet, as if it was holding its breath, listening along with Stiles and his demon to the voice that seemed to be filtered from...from where?

_Stiles!_

He shut his eyes, trying to concentrate. Trying to listen. Where was it coming from? It sounded panicked, hurt, and muffled. It was as if the voice was clawing up through the tenors of the very ground below his feet --

“Stiles?”

He jerked back, eyes flying open to find Derek Hale standing in front of him, dressed only in a threadbare v-neck shirt and jeans. He was panting, if only slightly, as if he’d been in a hurry to come and find Stiles out in the woods.

“Christ,” Stiles said, hand gripping his chest, “What are you doing, creeping up on me like that?”

“Creeping up on you?” Derek said incredulously, “I’ve been calling your name for the past minute or so.”

Stiles swallowed thickly, and chose to ignore his comment, “What are you doing out here?”

“Well for someone who acted like they didn’t want anything to do with me, you’re sure sending mixed signals running through my yard like this.”

“Your -- _what_?”

Derek spread his arms, smirking. Then he pointed to the forest behind him that thinned out. Over the tops of the trees, Stiles could just make out the slightest point of a roof.

Stiles rolled his eyes, “This doesn’t constitute as a yard, Hale. It’s still public property.”

“The woods are _Hale_ property, you know that.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, “Ah yes, I forgot that arrogance was encouraged at an early age in the Hale pack.”

Stiles turned his back to the wolf and began to walk away when he spoke again: “What were you running from?”

“I wasn’t running from anything.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Stiles shot him a snarky smirk over his shoulder, “I have. And I will continue to do so.”

He kept walking until he heard quick footsteps behind him. Derek cut in front of him and put a hand out to stop him. Stiles stilled before they could touch.

“Listen. Would you just leave me alone?” Stiles told him, “And stop following me around in the library, you and all your friends are causing too much attention and the humans are going to fucking notice.”

Derek gave him an odd look, “You think those creatures are there with me?” He shook his head, “Stiles, they’re following _you_.”

Stiles blanched, “Why would they do that?”

“Because of that book you summoned.”

Stiles felt his temper rise, “Look. I told you, it was a slip up. Besides, what the hell is everyone interested in Tempest Oliver’s periodical for? Not to say that she isn’t interesting, because her puritanical take on folklore is a total analogy of the civil rights movement happening right now in this country --”

“Stiles what the hell are you talking about?”

“The book!” Stiles flailed, “The book you saw me summon off the shelf in the library! Why would any creature, besides myself and maybe another folklorist, be interested in it?”

Derek gave him a blank look, “That’s what you think this is about?”

Stiles blinked at him, “What else would it --?”

“The Bestiary, Stiles.” Derek said in a low voice, “You summoned a Bestiary that hasn’t been seen in over two hundred years.” Derek moved closer and Stiles took a step back, “You, a Demon Witch, one of the most rare creatures known to us, summoned one of the most legendary books relevant to our kind. That’s why creatures have been following you around. And that’s why my alpha wants to meet with you.”

Stiles gaped at him, his mind going blank.

 _Well shit_ , said the demon in his head.

Stiles gaped, “So when you invited me to dinner...”

“It was a cordial invitation on behalf of my alpha.” Derek nodded, his eyes dropping away from Stiles. Stiles didn’t know why that bothered him so much.

Stiles cleared his throat, “I don’t have it,” he told the wolf in a low voice.

“Where is it?”

Stiles shrugged, “At the library. I returned it.”

“You --?” Now it was Derek who gaped at him, “You _returned_ it?” Stiles nodded, but Derek was already shaking his head, “I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged again, “Believe whatever you want. But I don’t have it.”

“Why would you? It has everything in there, all of our history --”

“Because I don’t care, Derek.” Stiles said tiredly, rubbing his left eye, “I don’t care about any of that.”

“How can you not?” Derek said in a tone of disbelief.

Stiles set his jaw, “Because I’m the _only one_ of my kind. And I wasn’t even allowed to be that. I was tortured, _as a child_ , and told that I was a monster because no one was around to teach me how to control myself. So I’m not interested in any part of your world. Because it’s not my world. You want the book so bad, go get it yourself.”

Derek looked shocked, and Stiles wished he had a camera. Just to replay this moment whenever the guilt of what he experienced as a teenager crept up on him. With that Stiles turned and ran slowly back down the path he came, leaving Derek Hale alone in the woods.

 

+++

 

Later that night, once Stiles had showered and sat through a tremendously awkward dinner with his father, he laid out on his twin sized bed and did an Google search on the Hale children.

He knew that Derek was in school for law, probably at the Beacon Hills University since he could go essentially for free. His older sister Laura was the sitting chair for a department at Pitzer College, specializing in human rights (which Stiles snorted at). The youngest, Cora, was an artist -- a sculptor -- making quite a name for herself in all the right circles. 

Though, Stiles doubted either girls stayed away from home for very long. The Hale territory was one of the oldest and largest in the states, and the reason for that was how tight a leash the alpha held on her pack. No slip-ups allowed. Every pack member, and creature, living in Hale territory was held accountable for their actions. Stiles had learned that, first hand.

He wondered if any of them had ever felt suffocated by that. He supposed not. Werewolves were inherently pack creatures. They thrived in large groups. It was the same for some witches, gaining power by the stature and strength of their coven.

Stiles wasn’t like that.

He didn’t know where his power came from. Some of it came from the demon, obviously. But he didn’t know if he’d had power before the demon possessed him, inherited from his mother, or if he _was_ human like his father.

And wasn’t that a thought?

He supposed the demon must have been attracted to his mind for its inherent power, to begin with, as demons were. Demons possessed witches because witches psyches were more open, more tethered to the other world. It left them vulnerable, but it also allowed them to tap into those worlds, to communicate better with the other side. So the demon must have seen something in Stiles it wanted. Something to sink its jaws into.

But Stiles didn’t know, not for sure.

He didn’t _remember_.

It didn’t matter now, he supposed. The demon was locked inside him. They’d be tied together until Stiles died.

 _Friends forever_ , the demon giggled, and Stiles rolled his eyes. He rubbed his forehead, thinking about his plan of action for the next morning. He had three more days left in Beacon Hills, and he intended to get as much work done as possible. If that meant collecting his manuscripts and finding some hole in the library to hide in, so be it.

He sighed, knowing full well it wasn’t going to be that easy. How was he supposed to explain to the Hales that he didn’t have the book? How was he supposed to get them to believe him? When they already suspected him of crimes worse than lying.

Such as killing his own mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so fun to write, I hope you guys are enjoying it!
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated!


	4. The Diner

**_Ten Years Ago_ **

 

“What happened to your mother, Stiles?”

Stiles spit out the blood that had pooled in his mouth and, shit, was that a tooth? 

_ I’ll grow it back for you _ , the demon told him,  _ good as new _ .

“She died.” his voice sounded like a shredded string like something had pulled him too tight and stretched him for too long. Which they had.

“How did she die?” Deaton asked him gently. He was sitting on a stool in front of Stiles now, so they were at eye level. Stiles supposed this was the good cop routine. Talia Hale stood in the back, her shoulders pressed against the wet walls of the basement, arms crossed. Her face was blank.

_ Bad cop _ , he told the demon. And the demon agreed.

“I don’t know.” 

“She was found in the woods,” Deaton told him as if Stiles didn’t fucking know. He told him as much.

Deaton shrugged, “You said you didn’t.” he said with the simplicity of a man who hadn’t spent the last day torturing a sixteen-year-old boy. 

Stiles hated him.

“She was found in the woods,” Deaton repeated, “Lying on top of a tree stump with her heart ripped out.”

“She was holding it in her hand.”

Deaton nodded, “When did the demon come to you, Stiles?”

Stiles shook his head. He didn’t know. Always? Never? A day ago? A year ago? Five minutes before. He couldn’t remember. 

“Was it when your mother died? Or before?”

“I don’t know.”

Deaton’s brown eyes assessed him, “What about when you tried to kill that boy at school?”

A name rang out inside of Stiles’s head and the demon shouted with glee, “Is he -- is he alive?”

Deaton nodded, “A pack member got there just in time. Gave him the bite. He’ll be alright.”

A part of Stiles was relieved. He wasn’t sure which part.

“You’re rather an anomaly, Stiles.” Deaton stood and moved back towards the small, narrow table where he’d set up the five wands. They were different shapes, sizes, and colors, and Stiles had become intimately familiar with each of their functions. 

_ The Punishers Five _ , he told the demon,  _ shits about to get real again _ .

“A demon witch is a rare, if terrifying creature. One not common anymore. Not since the Catholic Church started assigning exorcists to each parish.” Deaton picked up the third wand, one of silver coloring and a slight curl at the end, “Once a demon latches onto a witch’s soul, it’s nearly impossible to separate the two. The witch usually dies fairly soon,” he turned his attention back to Stiles, “And the demon moves onto another victim. They’re usually not as young as you are, either, which makes me suspect…” he moved back towards Stiles, “That it's drawn to something to you specifically. Inside you.” 

Stiles’s eyes were on the wand, and the demon laughed inside his head when Deaton raised it.

“I’m truly sorry for this, Stiles,” Deaton said before releasing the spell. 

 

+++

There was a blood-curdling scream that Stiles recognized as his own and he shot up in bed. At first, he was confused by his surroundings -- wondering how old he was and why on earth he was back in Beacon Hills when the last couple days swarmed up to meet him in his mind’s eye. The nightmare had left him damp in his sleep shirt, and Stiles swung his long legs out of the bed and cradled his head in his hands. 

This town was fucking with his head, and he needed to get out of it. 

Rushing a shower and pulling on jeans and a thick sweater, his morning worsened when he realized his dad was all out of coffee. Huffing in annoyance, Stiles grabbed his keys and bag and all-but ran to the car, gunning it towards the library, as he was already running late.

The morning was gray and wet, making Stiles want to go back home and cocoon himself in layers of blankets. 

Once arriving at the library, Stiles was displeased to see the head librarian, Jennifer Blake, flapping around like a nervous bird. Once again, Derek was at Stiles’s habitual table, and he thanked Jennifer cooly when she bustled over with a trolley full of books. 

The good news was, Stiles had been prepared for today. He’d brought headphones with him to better distract himself from the intimidating presence of Derek Hale.

The bad news was that today, Hale brought back up.

The blonde looked vaguely familiar to Stiles, but everyone in Beacon Hills looked familiar. She was curvy and elegant, skin a color that suggested she’d seen more sun that Stiles had in his entire life. She was a creature, sure and confident in her movements. 

A werewolf, Stiles surmised. 

She wore a well-fitted sweater and dark jeans, with heeled sharp boots that tapped on the floor as she watched Stiles take his spot from her perch next to Derek. She gave Stiles a withering glance and narrowed sharp brown eyes at him. Despite the stack of books and laptop opened in front of her, this was clearly not where she wanted to be.

As Stiles settled into his seat, she hissed softly at him. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Erica,” Derek reprimanded softly, looking up from his work and locked eyes with Stiles, “Good morning.”

Stiles nodded at the two of them, “Back again, I see.”

The female werewolf rapped a stack of papers sharply against the top of the desk.

“May I introduce my friend Erica Reyes. She’s a law student with me here at BHU.”

Her eyes narrowed further at Stiles, “He smells weird.”

Stiles huffed and opened his laptop, “Don’t like it? Sit somewhere else.”

He felt Isaac appear at his elbow, his stack of books in tow. The tall, curly-haired man regarded the three warily, “All good here, Stiles?”

“Peachy,” Stiles quipped, taking the books from the librarian. He felt Isaac’s warming presence leave as the man retreated back to his desk. A cursory glance at the rest of the room told Stiles he was alone with the werewolves and didn’t that just make his heart pound heavily in his chest?

Erica cocked her head as if listening to the sound. Which, she probably was.

“Uncomfortable?”

Stiles ignored her and plugged his headphones into his laptop, then into his ears. The familiar task of reading and taking notes, as well as his Spotify playlist, soon absorbed his attention, and he finished with the first manuscript in less than two hours. Looking up, the clock on his laptop revealed there was still time for another before lunch.

He had prepared himself to once again be stared at by every creature imaginable in the library that day. But the only other readers in the Ingrid Hale Reading Room were the two sitting across from him. By one-thirty, his lack-of-caffeine headache had reached an all-time high, and, filling out two new request slips, Stiles left his seat to placate his caffeine addiction and felt satisfied with that morning’s accomplishments. At this rate, he could leave Beacon Hills in a day feeling like he’d actually gotten something done.

As Stiles gathered his manuscripts, he felt Derek’s eyes on him. It took considerable effort, but he refrained from acknowledging the werewolf.

“All done with these?” Isaac asked back at the desk.

“Yes, there are two more still at my desk. If I could have these as well that would be great.” Stiles told him while handing over the slips, “Do you want to join me for lunch?”

“Jennifer just stepped out,” Isaac told him grumpily, “I’m stuck here for a while.”

Stiles patted his hand in sympathy then turned to leave.

There was one coffee shop in town. For the odd hour of the day, the line inside wasn’t very long, and Stiles shuffled his way up to the front, breathing in the aromas of coffee and cinnamon rolls. After placing his order and waiting patiently at the end of the counter, Stiles felt a small victory when the large paper cup was finally placed into his waiting hands. 

“Stiles?” 

Stiles froze at the sound of his name. He turned very slowly, coffee in hand, and found Scott McCall sitting at one of the cafe tables situated towards in front of the window. 

Scott McCall, who’d once been Stiles’s best friend. 

That is, before Stiles tried to kill him.

He was sitting across from a dark-haired woman that looked a lot like Derek, but younger and softer in the face. Her hair was cut into a bob and pencil straight, her eyeliner just as sharp, drawn into wings at the sides of her eyes. Cora Hale, Stiles guessed, from the artistic way she was dressed in flowing garments. 

Scott stood and smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, “It is you!”

Stiles gaped at him, panic coursing through his body at a quick and steady pace. He felt like he was going to choke.

“Excuse me.” Stiles apologized and fled towards the door, almost knocking a woman out as she tried to enter the coffee shop. He was halfway down the sidewalk when he heard someone run after him.

“Stiles -- Stiles  _ wait _ .”

“Why could you possibly want to talk to me?”

“Maybe because I haven’t seen you in ten years? Jesus your legs are long.” Scott ran in front of him, making him pause in his fleeing.

Once they were facing each other, Stiles was able to notice how much Scott had grown. He wasn’t as tall as Stiles, never had been, but he was broader. Bold chested and confident, his dark curls had been cut into a neat length, and his face had lost that boyish charm that Stiles remembered. But his eyes were still kind, still smiling.

“I didn’t even know you were in town.” Scott said softly, “Were you just going to leave again? Disappear for another decade?”

Stiles licked his lips nervously and looked away from his old friend, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I ruined your life.”

“Is that what you think?” 

Stiles shrugged. That’s what he’d been told.

Scott shook his head, “Oddly enough, I should thank you.

Stiles blinked at him, “I’m sorry. That didn’t quite compute.”

“Do you remember how  _ bad  _ my asthma was?” Stiles did remember. He remembered when, in gym class, they’d been forced to run a mile as a fitness test. Every year it ended in the paramedics being called for Scott.

“The bite cured me of that. It gave me a family -- the pack. Talia got me a job at the hospital and is helping me put myself through nursing school.” Scott shook his head, “Don’t carry that burden with you, Stiles. Not when any of it was truly your fault. It wasn’t you. I knew it wasn’t you. I’m just sorry you felt like you had to run away from home to prove that.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say. His face felt hot and his throat felt tight. Just in that short speech, Scott had touched on every one of the fears he’d harbored since he was sixteen. Everything he’d re-felt this morning after the horrific nightmares that had plagued him the night before.

“You should come by the pack house.”

Stiles shook his head, and cringed when his voice came out cracked, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“It is. Laura is trying this whole ‘get to know your community’ thing. She’s invited a ton of fae and witches who live in town.”

“I don’t live here anymore.”

Scott gave him a look, “You should come, Stiles. Don’t punish yourself anymore. Not because of what you  _ think _ you did to me, anyway.” 

He touched Stiles’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, “It was good seeing you.”

Stiles nodded, gripping his coffee tightly, his knuckles going white. He watched as Scott walked down the sidewalk, heading towards the side of town where the hospital was. Ignoring the feeling of Cora’s eyes on him from within the coffee shop, Stiles turned sharply on his heel and headed back towards his jeep.

The Ingrid Hale Reading Room was just as empty as it had been when he left. Derek and Erica were completely immersed in their work, and, envious of their production, Stiles took up a manuscript and tried to get back to work.

But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the discomfort he’d felt since bumping into Scott. What were the odds, right after the horrific flashback he’d suffered in his dreams last night? He almost felt like the universe was trying to tell him something.

_ Just like yesterday in the woods _ , the demon suggested slyly.

_ No help needed from you, thanks _ , Stiles told it sharply. 

After a few hours of pretending to work, Stiles decided to call it quits for the day. Frustrated, he pushed his chair away from his desk and walked towards the exit.

“Any requests?” Isaac asked as he took the bundle of manuscripts from Stiles’s arms. He handed over a bunch of freshly filled-out call slips. Isaac smirked at the stack but didn’t say a word. 

Then, turning, Stiles braced himself. He walked back over to the occupied desks and cleared his throat.

Both werewolves looked up in surprise.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Stiles said, “But thank you for keeping all the…” he paused and lowered his voice, “ _ Visitors _ , out today.”

Derek’s eyes softened, “You’re welcome,” he murmured, a note of surprise in his voice. 

Stiles nodded again at the two of them and made a hasty escape.

+++

 

Painfully early the next morning Stiles was ripped from sleep by a terrible sensation of falling. Flailing his way out from under the covers, he lay disoriented in his bed, his body drenched with sweat and his heart pounded a staccato beat that reverberated through his rib cage. Gingerly he sat up.

A white face stared at him from the window with dark, hollow eyes.

Too late he realized that it was just his reflection in the glass. He barely made it to the bathroom before being sick. Then he spent the next thirty minutes curled into a ball on the cold tiled floor, blaming Derek Hale, the Hale pack, and Beacon Hills as a whole for his unease. Finally, he crawled back into bed, only sleeping a few more hours before getting up with the first light of the sun. 

Not wanting to deal with his dad so early in the morning, Stiles showered and then gently eased himself into his jeep. There was a diner just on the outskirts of town, open 24/7 for truck drivers passing through. It was out of the way enough too, that the workers and customers didn’t know all of the town gossips. 

Meaning Stiles could sit in peace without any withering or pitying stares.

Once inside, Stiles settled himself into a booth near the back, ordering a giant cup of coffee, two scrambled eggs, several pieces of toast and bacon. 

He was playing with a sugar packet, his eyes threatening to droop closed when someone sat in the seat across from him.

Looking up, he saw Derek Hale looking disgustingly fresh and awake for the hour of the morning.

Stiles flailed in surprise.

“You’re a jumpy little thing, aren’t you?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, “Little? It’s a bit early to be so condescending, Hale.”

“Why don’t you call me Derek.”

“Why don’t you kiss my -- “

“Okay, okay.” Derek held his hands up in mock surrender, “I’m sorry I startled you.”

Stiles would roll his eyes if he had the energy.

Derek was suddenly quiet, and Stiles raised his eyes to find the wolf assessing him with a gentle look, “You don’t look so great, Stiles.”

Stiles chuckled darkly, “Fuck you, dude.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m aware of how shitty I look, thanks.”

They fell into silence as Stiles’s feast of a breakfast arrived.

“Can I ask you something?” Derek asked as Stiles took a giant bite of toast.

Stiles swallowed, “I doubt I can stop you from doing so.” He looked at his eggs.

“What did you mean when you said you were tortured as a child?”

“What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?” Stiles asked lowly, tossing pepper onto his eggs. 

“Who hurt you?”

Stiles froze, looking up into the earnest face of the werewolf in the booth.

“Tell me, Stiles,” Derek said urgently, “Because whoever did directly violated Hale territory laws --”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Stiles interrupted him, his heart suddenly in his throat. Derek blinked at him. 

“Directly violated --” Stiles broke off and dropped his fork, pressing the palms his suddenly sweaty hands into his legs, “Derek, do you even know  _ why _ I left Beacon Hills?”

Derek’s jaw worked, “Because when your mother died, you lost control and almost killed Scott McCall.”

Stiles nodded, “Right. And what do you think happened after that?”

Derek blinked again, “I don’t --”

“How do you think  _ your _ alpha responded to an out-of-control  _ Void _ with a demon living inside his head?”

Derek leaned back from where’d he’d had his elbows pressed into the plastic-covered diner table, “What are you saying?”

Stiles paused, considering. He could refrain from telling Derek about what his mother did to him. He could prevent the image the werewolf probably had of his alpha in his head from being destroyed.

Then he decided he didn’t care.

“What I’m saying is, that when I was sixteen your mother and that witch she employes, Deaton, kept me in your basement for a week and tortured me, trying to banish the demon that lives inside me and find out if I murdered my mother. Except that  _ I’m Void _ . Despite the name, oddly enough, there is more of me for a demon to sink its claws into. And only  _ I  _ can dispel a demon from my vessel. So they locked it inside me instead.

Derek was silent. Stiles took another bite of toast.

The werewolf cleared his throat, “I don’t believe you.”

Stiles snorted and picked his fork back up, “I don’t really care if you believe me.”

Derek studied him until the silence grew uncomfortable. 

Stiles slurped his coffee.

“Why would they do that?” Derek asked vehemently, “You were just a kid.”

Stiles shrugged, “You’d have to ask your alpha that.”

The fell into silence again, Stiles eating his food while Derek watched him. It wasn’t weird.

It was weird.

To say that Stiles was uncomfortable in Derek’s presence wasn’t entirely true. He was slowly coming to realize that, despite himself, he felt safe in the werewolf’s presence. Like the day before in the library, Derek could keep danger at bay.

Maybe if they’d never met before, Stiles would actually like him. Would seek him out. That, however, was never going to be the case.

“My mom -- she,” Derek paused, searching for the right words, “She’s not really ‘alpha’ anymore.”

Stiles nearly dropped his fork in surprise, “What? I didn’t know that.”

Derek gave him a sardonic look, “Well you haven’t been around, have you?”

Stiles threw a piece of toast at him, which Derek caught with ease and started to munch on, “She’s taken on a mentor role for Laura. Kind of lets her run the show now.”

Stiles found this incredibly hard to believe, “When did this happen?”

“When Laura graduated. Her ideas are good. She’s much more inclusive than my mom was, pack-wise. Which is important now, since there are so few creatures being born. And the elder packs respect her.”

That was good to hear, Stiles thought, taking a bite of bacon, “Is that why she wanted to meet me?” Stiles asked, putting two and two together, “Afraid I’d run off to another pack with the Bestiary?”

Derek stared at him a while, then nodded minutely.

Stiles clicked his tongue and wiped his hands on a napkin, appetite effectively lost, “Well I don’t have it.”

“As you’ve said.”

Stiles glared at him, “I  _ don’t. _ ”

“I just find it hard to believe that you would return it.”

“Because I don’t care.”

“How can you not?” Derek asked, his voice rising, “How can you not want to know what you are, where you came from?” His voice dropped, “When the first Void appeared?”

Stiles sat back in his seat, “I’d really rather not know.”

Derek snorted and crossed his arms, “I doubt that.”

“I don’t use magic, Derek.” Stiles rubbed his eyes, “Or at least, I try not to. That day in the library was the first slip up in a very long time. I try to live as normal -- as  _ human _ \-- a life as possible.”

Derek looked at him warily, “You don’t use magic?”

“No.”

“Any magic?”

“Were you listening the first time I said it?”

Derek’s brow creased, “Doesn’t that...hurt?”

It was Stiles’s turn to look confused, “Hurt?”

Derek shrugged, “When a werewolf refuses to shift, you can physically feel it. The animal side battles the human, fights to get out.”

“Witches aren’t like that.”

“No?”

“There’s no separation. Magic seeps into every aspect of our being.”

“Yet you’re able to separate it.”

“I don’t separate, I…” Stiles paused, “Suppress.”

“Right. That sounds much more healthy.”

“I never said I was.”

Derek watched him with wary eyes, “You don’t see it leaking into any part of you? Even without you knowing it?”

Stiles sighed, “If I don’t know about it, I can’t say. Can I? I hope it doesn’t.”

Derek rubbed a hand down his jaw, and only now Stiles noticed he had stubble on his cheeks. He was dressed in a soft looking sweater that made all of his edges look gentle. It made Stiles relax a bit.

“You should come and meet Laura.”

“Hard no.”

“Stiles.”

“No, Derek. Why would I? I don’t have the book. I don’t  _ want _ the book --”

“Because like you said, you’re the only one of your kind. And like it or not, you’re going to need a pack. There is something going on in Beacon Hills you don’t --”

“I don’t need a pack. And I’m leaving Beacon Hills tomorrow. So whatever is going on, I want no part of.”

“Tomorrow?” Derek repeated sharply. Stiles nodded. “Tomorrow is a full moon.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “You’re the werewolf here, Hale. Not me. Why should I care if there is a full moon?”

But Derek had looked away, staring hard at the empty counter, thinking. 

“Will you be at the library today?” The werewolf asked, suddenly quiet.

“Probably.” Stiles told him, then he swallowed, “Will you?”

“No,” Derek finally looked back, his green eyes dark, “But Erica will be. Stick close to her, will you?”

“Why --?” 

“Stiles, you might not think that the Hales have your best interest at heart, but we do.” The werewolf rose with an elegance that shouldn’t belong to such a broad man, “If I don’t see you before you leave,” Derek paused, his eyes searching Stiles for...what? 

“It was good to see you again, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded, and there was suddenly a  _ pulling  _ underneath his skin, just at his fingertips. The demon whined at the sensation.

He watched the werewolf leave the diner, and stared down at his full plate of food, no longer hungry.

+++

 

Derek fled to the furthest point in the woods to the cabin where his uncle lived alone. The cabin’s welcoming white door opened, and a lean man with mischievous eyes stood with his hand on the latch, taking in his nephew’s appearance from head to toe.

“What’s got your balls in a twist?”

Peter Hale had lived out in the woods ever since his wife died in childbirth five years ago. Most wolves thrived on pack life, but after the death of his mate, Peter craved solitary and silence. He’d banished himself to an obscure part of the woods, a place so quiet even the fae wouldn’t tread. A burial ground, Peter had told his nephew, fitting for a man’s whose heart lay partially in the beyond. He accepted only a few visitors, one of the holy few being Derek.

The invitation, Derek had once discovered, did not extend to his mother.

Derek’s face registered anger then resignation at the greeting, “Nice to see you too, Uncle.”

The younger man pushed by the older, stomping into the house and taking it it's cool, cold scent. No matter the temperature outside, Peter’s cabin was always cool.

Furnishings were sparse and books were aplenty. Derek thought ideally that Stiles would probably appreciate his uncle’s choice of lifestyle. 

The thought of Stiles suddenly made Derek tense. 

“It’s been a while since we saw each-other, nephew,” Peter said, shutting the door and moving towards the alcove kitchen, “What brings on such a surprise visit?” He poured them two tumblers of whiskey and motioned for Derek to take a seat by the fireplace, which was ablaze. The rest of the cabin must not have taken note, for the heat of the flames only extended about a foot. It was as if an invisible barrier of cold air prevented it from moving any further into the abode. 

Derek was silent, watching the flames crack around each other. He took a sip of the dark liquid, feeling the burn run down his chest. His wolf licked at the feeling lazily.

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“At the end. What made you run out here with your tail between your legs?”

Derek shot him a dry look, “I needed to get away from a witch.”

Peter watched his nephew for a moment, noting Derek’s obvious agitation, “Male or female?”

“Male.”

“And what makes him so special?”

Derek looked up from under his heavy brows, “Everything.”

“Oh. You are in trouble, aren’t you?” Peter chuckled lowly in sympathy and amusement.

Derek sighed out, “You could say that.”

“Does he have a name?”

Derek paused, “Stiles. Stilinski.”

He saw his uncle visibly freeze, if only for a fraction of a second, “I thought you said he was a witch?”

Derek’s brow furrowed in confusion, “He is?”

Peter was silent a moment, “You’re right to recognize him as special. That Stiles is an extraordinary creature, is true.”

“You know who he is?”

Peter nodded, looking down and rolling the tumbler in his large hands, “When Stiles was born,  _ everyone _ knew who he was.”

He must have sensed Derek’s confusion, because Peter continued, looking into the flames of the fire as he did so.

“His birth was a miracle in itself. Humans and Creatures can’t procreate, not a live child, anyways. So when he was born to Claudia, we all sighed in relief. We knew how much she craved a child, and how she loved that bumbling cop of hers. Claudia was a very powerful witch, I could never understand what she saw in Stilinski. 

Derek refrained from commenting, having only met the man a handful of times. For a cop, he made it incredibly easy to sneak into his house on the daily.

“The boy was born, and without any hiccups. And he appeared human, at first. I don’t think Claudia cared either way. There was such a commotion about her being pregnant, I think she was glad to have the spotlight off her family.”

“When did they figure out he was a Void?”

Peter paused, “I wonder now if she’d always known. She didn’t want to be involved in the creature community after the child was born. But things were drawn to him. Creatures followed him like moths to a bright, burning flame. Voids are rare, coveted, even. I wonder if she was trying to protect him, keeping him away like she did.”

“What _ are _ Voids, exactly?” Derek asked. He’d only heard horror stories from the Dark Ages, and the rumors about Stiles himself. He was beginning to think he, and everyone around him, had a very misconstrued version of what the creature Void actually was.

“The Roman witches called them  _ inania regna _ . Empty kingdoms. Voids are supposedly empty vessels. Inherently, they are beings of pure magic, closely related to a demon, but not quite. Witches demons are fond of because they can feed on their power and are closely tied with the Otherside. A Void is like catnip. A demon can live within a Void for centuries without being exorcized.”

“What about Stiles?” Derek asked, “He has both witch blood  _ and _ is a Void.”

“I don’t think there has ever been a creature like Stiles,” Peter said, is tone one of quiet wonder.

Derek was quiet, trying to find the right words to phrase his next question. To actually breach the subject that had brought him to his uncle’s cabin.

“Did mom and Deaton torture Stiles when he was sixteen?”

Peter’s eyes left the flames and met Derek’s, “Yes.”

Derek shut his eyes and took another sip, “Why?”

Peter sighed heavily, “What they did was wrong, Derek. Undoubtedly. At the time, however, I think Talia was afraid.”

“Afraid? Of a sixteen-year-old boy?” Derek snapped, feeling a little sick.

“A sixteen-year-old boy who had a demon living inside his head, whose mother was just found with her heart ripped out,  _ and _ , who had recently attacked his supposed best friend.”

“You don’t think Stiles killed his mother?”

“No, I don’t.” Peter said softly, “But I do believe he has the potential to  _ kill anyone _ .”

“He doesn’t.” Derek surprised himself with how adamant he sounded, “He doesn’t use magic anymore”

Peter gave him a look, and Derek shrugged.

“That’s what he claims. He suppresses the magic. Lives a life as close to human as possible.”

Peter pursed his lips and set down his tumbler on the ground at his feet. He leaned forward, clasping his hands and looked at his nephew, “You have to understand, even if Stiles wanted to suppress his magic, wanted to exorcize the demon out of him, he couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because Deaton and your mother made a mistake. They locked the demon inside of Stiles. Inside of a scared, sixteen-year-old boy who’d just lost his mother.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Thank you all for the kudos, that is such good motivation! This has seriously been a blast to write, and all of the encouragement means a lot :)
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @agathasyouruncle.
> 
> Have a spoopy holiday everyone!


	5. The Jeep

******** That afternoon, the Ingrid Hale Reading room was far less crowded. Erica was scribbling furiously and didn’t look up when Stiles passed. As promised, Derek was nowhere to be found. Even so, everyone was observing the rules that he and Erica had clearly, if silently, laid down, and they stayed out of the reading room and away from Stiles.

Gathering his materials from Isaac, Stiles spent the next couple hours happily working away, feeling considerably productive. Around one, he straightened his spine and cracked his neck, turning it left and right, only to find that Allison Argent had suddenly appeared at his side.

“I’m surprised you’re able to get much done, what with the Hale wolves watching you.”

Her tone, despite the words, wasn’t threatening. Instead it seemed observant, and Allison gave him a look of familiar curiosity, of one creature simply trying to understand another. 

Stiles wondered just when precisely Allison had stopped considering him a fellow witch. 

“Can I help you with something, Allison?” Stiles asked, trying to keep his voice pleasant. 

The slender witch shrugged, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulder as she cast a guarded look over to Erica, who’d stopped working and was cautiously observing them.

“Just keep in mind that  _ loup-garous _ aren’t the only creatures entitled to the information inside the  _ Traité Anecdotique des Monstres. _ .”

Stiles eyes widened involuntarily, “What are you talking about?”

“It’s no secret the book came to you, Mieczysław,” Stiles flinched at the sound of his birth name, “You should be honored.”

“I’m not. I couldn’t care less.”

Allison gave him a smug look, “You know witches can’t lie to one another.”

Stiles leaned in and whispered darkly, “Then it’s a good thing I’m not one.”

Allison frowned, but Stiles continued, leaning back away from her, “Besides, I don’t have the book. If you’re interested in it, you can go and request it.”

He turned back to his work, fully expecting Allison to return to her table. But instead, the young witch remained at his side, her dark eyes boring into the side of his head. 

“You’re mother was very independent, so my parents tell me. That was her fatal flaw.”

Stiles grit his teeth, his jaw nearly snapping under the strain, “Stop it, Allison.” The air around them seemed unnaturally cold and clear.

“She was standoffish, just like you. She thought she didn’t need the Argent coven’s support after you were born.” Allison’s voice dropped, “She learned, didn’t she?”

The air around them was practically frigid, and Stiles turned to see Allison’s brow furrow as her breath came out in white wisps. 

_ Kill her,   _ the demon roared,  _ Rip out her veins and soak in her innards. Choke the witch, make her bleed - _

There was a low growling noise, and the sound of a chair scraping backwards. The two witches turned to see Erica standing, her hands clenched, glaring at them.

Allison backed away, “Enjoy your afternoon,” she told Stiles, calmly walking away as if she hadn’t sent his heart pounding against his ribcage. 

After she left, the air’s temperature turned to normal. Stiles cast a glance at Erica, who had returned to her seat but was still watching him. When his heart stopped pounding and the roaring in his ears abated, Stiles packed up his belongings with shaking hands. He didn’t care if it looked like he was running away. He was. He wanted to get the fuck out of Beacon Hills.

It was Jennifer, the library director, who collected his materials and accepted his hastily given thanks. He could feel eyes on his shoulders has he all but bolted from the library, his feet crashing down the steps towards the parking lot and into his mother’s jeep. He took a moment to collect himself — he hadn't been that close to slipping, to letting the demon out in years. 

“That was her fatal flaw,” Stiles scoffed and rubbed a tired hand down his face. Oh how little the Argents knew, how little anybody knew, about what had actually happened to his mother.

+++

 

The fire crackled around them, yet Derek felt a chill settle around his shoulders as his uncle’s words sank in.

“Because Deaton and your mother made a mistake. They locked the demon inside of Stiles. Inside of a scared, sixteen year old boy who’d just lost his mother.”

“Stiles told me something similar,” Derek admitted, watching his uncle take a long sip of whiskey.

Peter nodded solemnly, “They tried to get the name of the demon. At least then they’d know what they were dealing with if it ever showed face again.”

“What do you mean?”

Peter shrugged, “Stiles seemed to gain control after a couple days. It didn’t help that they literally locked the demon inside his head, but it was the boy who came out in the end. Whatever entity is living inside him, Stiles has reigned it in. To my knowledge, he’s never had a slip up since Scott McCall.”

Derek eyed his uncle suspiciously, “You kept tabs on him?”

“For a couple years. Until Tess.”

Derek nodded, understanding. When his uncle’s wife died, he ceased any role he had in the pack. That apparently included keeping watch over Stiles Stilinski.

He ran a hand down his face, feeling his scruff tickle the inside of his palm, “There’s more. Stiles summoned the Bestiary.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, sat back and took a sip of whiskey, “Did he now?”

Derek nodded, “He claims to have returned it to the library. But no one else has been able to find it. And believe me, Erica and I have tried.”

“I’m sure.” Peter said, smirking slightly, “What’s Laura going to do about it?”

“She initially wanted to get Stiles to hand it over, as a gesture of goodwill. But I don’t think she knows what Mom and Deaton did to him.” Derek shook his head, “She doesn’t understand why he’s lying about having it.”

“Do you believe he has it?”

“I don’t know. I searched his place, his car, his desk at the library. If he does have it, he’s hidden it well.”

Peter sat in quiet contemplation, his eyes watching the flames crack and smolder in the fireplace, “She may have a bigger problem on her hands.”

Derek shot him a questioning look, a feeling of unease growing in the pit of his stomach.

“There is a presence in the woods I can’t sink my claws into.” Peter explained, his brow agitated, “Whoever it is, they’re stirring up trouble. And I bet that book has something to do with it.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Peter shook his head, his eyes still on the flames, “Whispers in the wind, markings in the grass, that sort of bullshit.”

“When did it start?”

“About a week ago.”

“So when Stiles arrived,” Derek rubbed his neck, “The Salvatore pack has been making noise at our borders. There’s been a general feeling of unrest since Mom stepped back. And now rumors about this book are all over the goddamn west coast,” Derek sighed heavily, then knocked back the rest of his whiskey, “Another body was found in the river yesterday.”

“Creature or human?”

“Creature, obviously.”

Peter tapped his chin, “Perhaps the two are connected.”

“You think the Salvator’s are leaving us bodies in the river?”

“No. But whoever’s fucking around in my woods could be feeding on these creatures, and then dumping their bodies.”

“What kind of creature could do that?” Derek said speculatively

Peter shrugged, “Blood Fae, perhaps?”

“Or a demon.”

Peter nodded slowly, “I think you’d notice if Stiles was going out and dumping bodies.”

Derek thought back to Stiles’s haggard appearance that morning, “Maybe not.”

Peter gave him a dry look.

“ _ You’re  _ the one who said he had the capability to kill,” Derek defended himself darkly.

“Capability, yes. But the sixteen year old I met would never have  _ consciously _ harmed another living thing. So unless he’s had a dramatic personality change...”

Derek considered this. Did he think Stiles was a killer? His mother had certainly thought so. She’d believed him to have murdered his own mother. And the timing of it all seemed too much of a coincidence to pass off.

And yet...he didn’t want to believe it. Instead, he wanted to gather Stiles up and hide him in his bed until the heavy bags under the witch’s eyes disappeared.

“I need to talk to Laura.” Derek said, standing, “I don’t think I’m a good judge of who or  _ what  _ Stiles is.”

Peter cocked his head and regarded his nephew thoughtfully, “Why not? You knew him back then. Granted, you didn’t know what he was, but neither did Stiles.”

“He’s different than I remember,” Derek tried to explain, “I’m...I’m reacting to him differently.”

“You’re  _ reacting  _ to him?” Peter echoed with a small smile, “How very Jane Austen of you.”

Derek glared at his uncle and took leave of him, wondering why he bothered with the annoying man to begin with.

+++

 

Knowing full well he wasn’t going to relax that night, Stiles decided to give into his nerves and pack his bags. He’d take his mom’s jeep to the airport and leave it there for his dad to pick up. It was a shitty thing to do, he knew this, as the airport was a couple hours away, but his lack of control left him reeling. The demon has come dangerously close to showing face earlier, and Stiles was beginning to wonder if Beacon Hills wasn’t some sort of kryptonite for his self-control. 

After hasitly throwing the few articles of clothing he’d brought with him and collecting any wayward notes he’d left lying around, Stiles took one last look around his childhood bedroom and knew, down deep in his gut, this was the last time he’d ever be in there.

Blinking quickly, his eyes landed on a photo pinned up on his old cork board, one of himself and his parents, a year or so before his mother had died. 

He felt his face go numb at the sight of her, and quickly shut the door behind him. 

Darkness was falling once he got on the road leading out of town. He’d sent a text to Lydia and Jackson letting them know he was coming back. Coming home. The ball of worry that had knotted in his chest started to lessen and Stiles relaxed into the easy motion of driving. 

He’d gotten what he’d needed from the visit, access to information he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere else. It would help with his research, if anything else. Perhaps not with his mental health, he made a note to schedule a visit with his on-again off-again therapist just as soon as he got back to —

The dashboard lights went off and suddenly the engine of the jeep went silent. Stiles put his foot on the break to ease his speed, gently maneuvering the jeep to the side of the road. Cursing, he got out of the car, turning the flashlight on from his phone. There was no way the jeep suddenly died. He knew his dad kept the vehicle in mint condition, more out of respect for his mom than for Stiles’s use. 

Stiles was about to attempt to open the hood of the car when a breeze suddenly hit him, sending goosebumps crawling up his arms. 

The road around him was dark. He was just on the edge of town, where there was more forest and trails than structure and people. There was stillness in the air that put him on edge, and slowly Stiles turned to find a man standing a couple yards away from him in the middle of the road.

He couldn’t see his face in the thick shadows that hung over the road. The man wore a long overcoat, his hands clasped in front of him, head cocked to one side, watching Stiles. 

“Fuck,” Stiles mumbled, walking a couple steps away from the Jeep.

“What do you want?” he asked the mysterious man, and surely, Stiles guessed, his answer would be nothing good.

The man’s shoulder rose and fell, as if sighing, and he shook his head. Then, raising his shadowy hand, he made a come-hither motion. 

Stiles felt movement behind him, and he turned warily, only to see his mother’s blue jeep rise effortlessly up into the air. 

It rose and rose, until it was level with Stiles’s head. He stepped back, shoes scuffing against the shoulder of the road, breath coming now in short pants. Stiles looked towards the man draped in shadows, still standing in the middle of the street, with his hand still raised in the air. 

Slowly, the man’s hand turned, as if twisting a doorknob. Stiles watched in growing horror as the jeep tilted on its side, and all of his belongings crashed through the open passenger windows. 

His bags hit the street with a heavy thump, his book bag cracked open and his notes spilled onto the concrete. Stiles resisted the urge to run over and collect them. 

Slowly, chest shaking, Stiles looked to see what the man’s next move would be. 

He seemed to be waiting for Stiles to react. For a moment, they stood motionless in a strange, silent standoff. Then, as if bored with the entire situation, the man sighed again, and then flicked his wrist.

The jeep went flying violently into the forest. As soon as Stiles heart the trees crack and groan under its weight, he took off in the opposite direction, into the woods on the other side of the road.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Stiles swore as he tore through the underbrush. Twigs and branches slapped at his stomach, pulling at his loose sweatshirt. He tripped over a root, scrambling to get back up as he broke into a small clearing of oak trees. Just as soon as he was up, he skidded to a stop as he caught sight of the man. 

He stood just as he had in the road, face unseen, hands clasped in front of him. His head cocked to one side, observing Stiles.

Stiles felt the man’s eyes touch him from head to toe. Tiny blossoms of fission erupted all over his body.

Witch. The creature attacking him was a witch.

Instinctually, Stiles knew this wasn’t going to end well. Whatever the witch wanted, and Stiles could surmise exactly what he was looking for, Stiles didn’t have. 

But Allison didn't believed him. Neither did the Hales. No one had. And whatever was going on wasn’t going to stop until he gave it to them. 

The witch started to raise his hand, and Stiles quickly turned away from him, shutting his eyes. 

_ Help me, _ he told the demon, the cage door he usually kept shut tight he let slip open, if only slightly,  _ Get me out of here. Bring me somewhere safe. _

_ Safe? _ The demon echoed, and Stiles felt it filter through his memories looking for  _ safe. _

Stiles felt the air ripple around him as he was ripped from one reality and landed in another. Opening his eyes, Stiles felt his body sway. He was trying to keep control of the demon, trying to shove it back into his cage, but the sudden onslaught of power the demon had released inside him made him exhausted. 

The demon cackled,  _ Safe! Safe now with the mongrel. _ And then the demon howled loudly inside Stiles’s body.

Stiles covered his ears, “What are you talking about?” he outloud shouted to the demon

“Stiles?”

He opened his eyes and saw Derek Hale. 

Because _ of-fucking-course _ .

They were standing in the middle of a forest. The same forest? Stiles couldn’t tell. It wasn’t as dark, and as Stiles’s eyes adjusted, he realized that it wasn’t because they were in the forest. They were standing in a yard behind a giant brick house.

The Hale house.

Derek’s eyes were wide, “I thought you said you didn’t use magic?”

Stiles shook his head, “I don’t. I --”

The demon was singing inside his head, rattling and pulling at the cage door. Stiles gritted his teeth and pulled from his stomach, trying to shut the door. 

“ _ Stiles _ ?” 

He was on his knees, Derek was in front of him, hands gripping his shoulders. The wet grass damped his knees, soaking through his jeans. The werewolf’s touch sent waves of heat down his arms and the demon howled, panted and growled for more. 

Stiles shook his head again and felt liquid fall from his nose. 

_ Blood. _

“Shit,” Derek swore, concerned eyes searching Stiles’s face, “What’s going on?”

There was a commotion behind him, and dimly, Stiles could see the outline of several people emerging from the back of the house.

_ God no _ , he thought,  _ don’t bring me back in there. _

But the demon was scratching at the back of his eyeballs, and Stiles could feel blood beginning to drip out of his eyelids.

“Help me,” Stiles whispered to Derek furtively.

“With what?” Derek asked him, his voice urgent, “Stiles what the fuck is happening to you?”

“It’s coming out,” Stiles told him, “I’ve kept him locked for too long.”

“Hey,” Derek’s hands left his shoulders and Stiles nearly sobbed. The werewolf didn’t go far, instead, he cupped his warm hands to Stiles’s cheeks, “Stay with me, Stiles. Don’t you go anywhere.”

The demon tore from Stiles’s mouth, “W _olf_ _ blood tastes so sweet _ .” Stiles tried to shake free of Derek’s grasp, but the wolf only held on tighter. 

“Stay. With. Me.” he commanded, his green eyes intent on the young man in front of him, “You’re stronger than it, Stiles.”

“ _ He’s tired _ ,” the demon crooned, gripping Derek’s wrists, “ _ Soon enough, little pup. Soon enough he’ll let me out to play. _ ”

Stiles gasped as he gained control, folding the demon back into his soul and locking the cage behind him. He sagged forward, his face a bloody mess, collapsing into Derek’s shoulder. The werewolf kept his hands on the witch, cupping the back of his head, feeling his body tremble.

“Are you back?” Derek shook him slightly, “Is it you?”

Stiles was slow to answer, but when he did, it was his voice, but soft and weak, “Yes.”

There was the sound of running feet behind him, and suddenly a panting Scott McCall came into view.

“Is he ok? What the hell just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Derek told him, partially honest. Scott leaned forward, checking the dark haired man still draped across Derek’s shoulder.

“He’s out cold,” Scott told him, slipping into nurse mode, his dark eyes serious, “Get him into the house.”

Stiles twitched in his arms, and vaguely Derek thought that waking up in the Hale house was probably the very last thing Stiles Stilinski wanted to do.

 +++

 

_ He was sitting on top of the tree stump, the very one where his mother died, playing chess with a familiar face. _

_ “You’ll let me out, soon enough,” the demon told him. _

_ Stiles took one of his pawns, “You’re wrong.” _

_ “Why are you hiding like this?” the demon asked calmly, maneuvering his knight around the board, “You’re stronger than them. All of them. Stronger than me.” _

_ “I’m keeping them safe.” _

_ The demon took his knight, palming it in it’s claw, “That’s boring. We had so much fun together.” _

_ He crushed the knight, and Stiles suddenly thought of Derek Hale. He watched the demon brush away the crumbled dust. _

_ “There’s something in the woods,” the demon said, looking around them with curiosity, as if it hadn’t noticed where they were, “It’s calling out to you.” _

_ “I know.” Stiles said, scared, “How do I make it go away?” _

_ The demon smiled, all scales and fang, “You answer it.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on tumblr @agathasyouruncle. Kudos and comments = love


	6. The Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a long time since I've posted last, please forgive me! Hopefully, this chapter makes up for. It's a bit of a wander-off from the Discovery of Witches storyline, but it'll circle back in the next chapter. Please enjoy!

  _“Stiles.”_

The voice echoed around him, bouncing off the canopy of trees above his head. Stiles picked up the pace, his feet slapping against the ground. His lungs burned and there was a sick throbbing in the back of his head. How long had he been running for? Surely he was reaching his limit.

_ “Stiles.” _

The unfamiliar voice called out to him, threading like a song around his ears. Where was it coming from? As clear as it was, it sounded far off, as if calling him from some distance.

_ “Don’t go home, Stiles.” _

Was he running after it or away from it? He couldn’t remember leaving his dad’s house. 

“Stay with me, Stiles.” Derek’s voice sounded nearby, “Don’t you go anywhere.”

Derek? Stiles slowed his pace. Where was he? How come the werewolf sounded so close?

He passed a trail marker that he was sure he’d passed a mile back. Was he going in circles?

Stiles tripped over a gnarled branch and fell forward, knocking his nose against the forest floor. As he pulled himself to his knees, he felt blood gush from his nostril, and he swore under his breath. He felt his hand come up to his nose but felt something sharp scrape his cheek in the motion. Looking down, he saw his hand had  _ turned into a hoof and where his fingers should have been there was only thick keratin --  _

“I think he’s waking up.”

Scott’s voice broke through the nightmare Stiles was having and said demon witch flailed against the covers of the blanket that covered him. A damp towel fell down his face as it moved from where it had been pressed against his forehead, and with blurry eyes, Stiles took in the room around him.

Scott McCall sat next to the bed Stiles was laid out in, a calculating look on his face and Derek Hale was leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes on Stiles.

The room they had him in was plain but comfortable, clearly a guest room and clearly filled with designer products. A simple but expensive looking chest of drawers was set against the wall opposite the bed, and the bed itself was clearly magic because Stiles felt as if his body was floating on a flurry of clouds. 

“What’s going on?” Stiles asked them warily, sitting up slowly. His head spun and he held a hand up to press against it, pausing halfway and checking. He wiggled his fingers in relief.

“You collapsed in the backyard,” Scott told him, very matter of fact. The young nurse stood and checked his patient’s pulse, timing it against the watch he wore. 

Stiles thought it was all very unnerving, Scott McCall checking his pulse and Derek Hale standing in the doorway not saying anything.

“How did I get here?” Stiles asked, trying to collect his bearings. He was still shaky from the nightmare, and having woken up in the Hale house wasn’t helping. 

“We were sort of hoping you could tell us,” Scott said, setting Stiles’s hand down. He tossed a look over his shoulder at Derek, then continued, “You sort of just...appeared.”

“You said you didn’t use magic anymore,” Derek finally spoke, gruffly.

“I don’t,” Stiles mumbled, rubbing his eyes. He racked his brain, trying to remember how the hell he’d gotten here --

_ Safe?  _ The demon cackled,  _ Safe now with the mongrels. _

Stiles’s stomach bottomed out. 

He’d barely made it to the connecting bathroom before he threw up the contents of his stomach. The man in the road, being attacked, then letting the demon out, and how exhausted he’d been trying to reign it back in.

How  _ difficult  _ it had been.

Stiles pressed his forehead against the tile of the toilet. He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up big time.

There was a hot hand gripping the back of his neck, and unconsciously Stiles leaned into it.

“What happened in the woods, Stiles?” Derek asked him, his voice low. The werewolf was crouched down in front of him, green eyes searching Stiles for answers, “Our patrol found your Jeep totaled on the east side of the forest.” Derek squeezed his neck, and the pressure brought some relief to Stiles’s pounding head, “I thought you were leaving?”

“I tried to,” Stiles told him, his voice weak. Derek shouldn’t be touching him, not like that. It was a sign of possession, of a level of intimacy they were nowhere near.

And the demon liked it too much.

It had been quiet since Stiles woke up, but with Derek’s touch, it roared awake, cheering at the physical intimacy the wolf was offering. Stiles pushed back against it, backing himself up against the wall of the bathroom and pulling his knees into his chest. Stiles missed the look that flashed across Derek’s face. He tried to put his words in order.

“There was someone out in the road -- a witch.”

“Male or female?” Scott asked from the doorway, his brow furrowed.

Stiles pressed the heel of his hand into his left eye, “Male.”

“Did you recognize them?”

He shook his head, then locked eyes with Derek. He wore an olive-colored henley that made his eyes pop, “No. But he was powerful. Moved quickly. Fucked up my jeep without any difficulty.”

Scott swore, “Christ. Just what we need.”

“And you’re…” Derek paused, searching the pale, gaunt face in front of him, “You’re you?”

Stiles huffed humorlessly, “Yes.”

“For how long do you plan on being you?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Forever, Hale.”

Derek shrugged, “You still haven’t explained what happened. How did the demon slip out?”

Sighing in frustration, Stiles pulled at his hair, “I freaked out. I needed to go somewhere safe and...it helped me.”

“Can you not separate your magic from the demon’s?” Scott asked, his tone curious. 

Stiles shrugged, “I’m not sure anymore. It’s been so long since I properly used my own magic, I don’t know if I’d really be able to access my power without waking up the demon.”

“But you did in the library,” Derek argued, “When you summoned the Bestiary --”

“I did  _ not  _ summon that book,” Stiles said stubbornly, “It just  _ showed up _ .”

“Sure,” Scott said lightly, giving the two creatures still on the floor an amused look, “Because the oldest book known to magic just decided to make an appearance.”

“It  _ did _ .”

Derek huffed and stood, his shoulders taking up the width of the bathroom, “Laura is going to want to talk to you once she knows you’re awake.”

“Can. Not. Wait.”

“She’ll want to hear about the attack.”

Scott was biting his lip and throwing glances at Derek, “I may have left out the part about you using magic.”

Stiles looked at him, surprised, “Seriously?”

Scott shrugged, looking innocent, “I didn’t actually  _ see  _ you do it. For all I know, you just stumbled onto the property all on your own.”

Derek sighed heavily and shook his head, but said nothing as he made his way out of the small bathroom. Scott shot Stiles a wink, and the witch graced him with a small, thankful smile, before dropping his head back into his hands.

Trapped in the Hale house and awaiting questioning by the Hale alpha. What a freaking nightmare.

 

+++

Laura Hale was fending off two werewolf children and a small green Imp when Derek brought Stiles to speak with her. He’d given Stiles a change of clothes, which in retrospect was not his brightest idea, for now, the tall witch was covered in Derek’s scent, and it made his wolf want to roll around in it. Derek knew she’d heard them approach, and had probably smelled Stiles long before that. 

As they entered the kitchen, the two wolf children fell silent at the sight of Stiles, while the small Imp blinked and made his way around Derek to stand in front of the demon witch. 

Kiran had been abandoned as a child in San Francisco. Laura had gotten word about him and promptly drove down to pick him up. That was three years ago. While he didn’t necessarily fit in with the other werewolf kids, Kiran was been welcomed into the family with open arms. But Derek had always suspected the six-year-old knew he was different, knew he wasn’t among his own. 

Now the child stood in front of Stiles, head cocked, regarding the newcomer, and broke out into a smile. He reached out and licked Stiles’s hand, then placed his smaller one securely into the bony palm of the demon witch.

Laura’s eyes shot up, and she looked at Derek and said with some finality, “Well then.”

Derek cleared his throat, “Stiles, this is my sister, Alpha Laura.”

Stiles was staring at the child who held his hand with something akin to awe.

“Stiles?” Derek tried again.

His head shot up, “What? Oh. Right. Yes,” Stiles tried to wave with the hand that was currently occupied, “Uh, nice to meet you, Laura. Alpha Hale. Alpha Laura. Hale.” he shrugged and looked back down at Kiran. 

Laura’s face was caught between amusement and resignation, “Welcome, Stiles. It seems Kiran has taken to you.”

“Is that what's happening here?” Stiles murmured.

Derek huffed out and motioned for Laura, “Shall we?”

Laura nodded, laughing softly under her breath. She led them out of the kitchen and into the study, and Derek watched as Kiran followed Stiles like a shadow, gripping his palm tighter as Stiles moved to follow the two werewolves. 

Once in the study, Derek turned to find Stiles stone-faced and jaw clenched. It was as if he’d entombed himself  _ within  _ himself. His eyes were cold, features impassive. No longer could Derek smell him, It was as if Stiles wasn’t there. A panicky, clenching feeling erupted within Derek’s chest. Kiran whined softly, and before Derek could realize he’d moved, he was standing in front of the demon witch, gripping his shoulders tightly. 

“Whatever you’re doing,” he said in a low voice, “ _ Stop _ .”

Stiles’s dark eyes met his, and a look of understanding flashed across his face. He reached out and patted Derek’s face gently, “Sorry.” he whispered.

Suddenly, he seemed to realize what he was doing, and Stiles stepped back, his shoulders falling ever so slightly, and his scent returning to normal. He didn’t go far, however, and the two of them remained standing close, for which Derek’s wolf was grateful for.

Kiran licked his hand. Stiles absently ruffled his hair, as if to reassure him.

Derek turned his focus to find Laura staring at him intently with a look that said both w _ hat the fuck was that _ and  _ we’ll speak about it later _ . 

“Well, Stiles.” Laura began, switching her focus to the young demon witch, “I have to say, it’s nice you finally decided to stop by.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Stiles snapped.

Laura narrowed her eyes, glowing slightly red, “I have never understood your vehement aversion to our family, Stilinski.”

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose and side-glared at Derek, “Let’s leave that particular revelation for another morning, shall we?”

“Leave it, Laura,” Derek said with a look that spoke,  _ For now, trust me _ .

The alpha gave her brother another calculating look but relented.

“I should,” Stiles cleared his throat, and with the hand that wasn’t attached to Kiran, rubbed the back of his neck in an embarrassed motion, “I should thank you. For,” he shrugged, “letting me stay the night.”

Laura raised her eyebrow, “That’s not a problem.”

Stiles grimace weakly, “Any updates on my car?”

“It was completely demolished,” Laura said in her brisk, down to business tone that always came into play when faced with a problem, “It was taken to the Beacon Hills PD junk lot where you’re dad can sign for it.”

Stiles’s eyes widened, “Shit.”

“What is it?”

“I didn’t, uh,” he shifted, uncomfortably “Exactly let my dad know I was leaving.”

Derek furrowed his brow, “You didn’t tell your dad you were leaving?”

“We don’t have that kind of relationship, okay?” Stiles said sarcastically, a tone of bitterness seeping into his voice, “We didn’t exactly spend my childhood playing catch in the backyard if you get my meaning.”

_ No,  _ Derek thought,  _ they wouldn’t have _ . He wondered what the Stilinski household would have been like before Claudia died. He had a fair notion of what it was like after she’d been killed.

“Well, he’ll know in a couple of hours,” Laura said, “But I think that’s the least of your problems.” Stiles threw her a questioning glance, “Someone obviously doesn't want you to leave Beacon Hills,” Laura continued, “And I think we all know why.”

“Do we?” Stiles asked drily. But Derek caught the small movement of his shoulders tightening, of his feet moving so his hips were squared off. Ready for a fight.

He didn’t know if Laura had missed it or perhaps didn’t care. Or didn’t know just how frightening Stiles could truly be.

Laura crossed her arms and leaned back against the large desk that sat in front of the window. The large bay window looked out onto the back yard that led down to the woods. With walls lined with books and college accreditations, the room had always felt intimidating to Derek, but Laura had taken it all in stride. Just as she had with becoming alpha. 

“Where’s the book, Stiles?”

“I don’t have it.” Came the quick answer. His voice had taken on an indifferent tone, and once again Derek felt his scent drift away. As if the Stiles he’d become familiar with was slowly disappearing in front of him. Without thinking, Derek’s hand moved up and to the demon witch’s lower back, as if to reassure himself that Stiles was in fact still there. The touch distracted Stiles, jerking slightly and he looked to Derek with a look of concentrated confusion. 

“If you don’t have it,” Laura shrugged, “Who does?”

Stiles shook his head, dark eyes still on Derek, “I don’t know,” he murmured. Then he shook himself, as if clearing his thoughts, “I turned it back in.”

“To the library?” Stiles nodded, “So it must still be there,” Laura surmised. She uncrossed her arms and gave him a sharp smiled, “Then you can re-check it out.”

“Why don’t  _ you _ do it?”

“Oh trust me, we’ve tried.”

Derek let his hand fall away, and Stiles gave him an unamused look, “What a surprise.”

“Look, Stiles.” Laura spread her hands in what Derek supposed she thought was a placating gesture, “We can offer you protection. Book or no book. But someone is going to get their hands on it, and I’d rather it be us.”

“Naturally.”

“We won’t restrict others access to it,” Laura shrugged, “But we can protect it.”

“How very white-man-colonized-natives of you.”

Laura clicked her tongue, “Do you know who attacked you last night?” When Stiles stayed quiet, she continued, “Because based on the damage I saw, it looked like magic. Which means a witch came after you. Now, I know you’re not Mr. Popularity in those circles, but trying to murder you because you didn’t show up to the Samhain cookout is a little intense, don’t you think? Which makes me think they want the book just as bad as we do. We just didn’t stoop to homicide.”

“Attempted,” Stiles argued, then rolled his eyes because, why was he defending his potential murderers? 

“Fine. What the hell. Come Monday I’ll try to recheck the fucking Bestiary out.”

“Today.”

“Come again?”

“You’re going to check it out. Today.”

Stiles looked between the two werewolves, “It’s Sunday. The library is closed.”

Derek shrugged, “So?”

“Illegal. So illegal.”

“You’re a  _ demon _ witch.”

“That’s beside the point.”

 

+++

The drive to the library was made in silence, with Derek and Laura up front and Stiles in the back. Kiran had chased them down the driveway, grinning the entire way, until they hit the entrance to the main road and he disappeared into the woods that encompassed the Hale property. 

As soon as he was out of sight, a knot had loosened in the pit of Stiles’s stomach. Because the fucking kid had been talking to him  _ in his mind _ .

_ “Hello, Stiles.” _ said a tiny voice somewhere near his left ear.

_ “How are you doing that?” _ Stiles had thought back furiously, looking down at the small Imp child.

_ “The trees speak about you. They told me you were coming home.” _

_ “Well, that’s only slightly terrifying, thanks for that valuable tidbit.” _

The rest of the very much one-sided conversation had been Kiran reciting a new song about a shark he’d learned at school. Said song was probably going to be stuck in Stiles’s head forever. 

He leaned back against the plush seats of the Hale’s ostentatiously luxurious car and tried not to concentrate on the pounding in his head. It had started up again as soon as he’d entered that damn office. The same office he’d been taken to when he was a teenager. Right before they’d taken him to the basement.

He’d nearly fallen into a flashback, preparing himself for the onslaught of terrifying images he never let himself ruminate over while he was conscious. Then Derek...then Derek…

What the hell had Derek done?

All it took was one touch, one direct look from the wolf and Stiles had calmed down, come back into himself with such ease he’d never known before. He  _ hated _ it. He hated how much Derek was getting to him, hated how much the demon enjoyed it. Hated how much he wanted --.

Stiles rolled his neck and tried to clear his thoughts. No sense of running down _ that _ particular rabbit hole.

Given that it was a Sunday and the BHU Library was very much closed, there were no cars in the parking lot when they arrived. Laura and Derek emerged from the car with the grace of supernatural creatures, which they were.

Stiles followed them, stumbling along like an injured antelope. 

To his surprise, the library doors were unlocked, and the two Hales walked through them like they owned the place.

Which, Stiles corrected himself, they did.

He followed them in, feeling just a bit sullen at the idea of playing right along into the hands of the Hale’s. Derek, he supposed, he didn’t mind.  _ Didn't mind at all _ , his mind supplied. And while Laura was taking liberal steps to make the relationships between the three creature groups, there was still too much of Talia in her for Stiles to be comfortable with. 

Left to his thoughts, he didn’t realize the Hales had stopped walking near the entrance of the Ingrid Hale Reading Room and walked straight into Derek’s back. 

About to make a sarcastic comment, Stiles’s tongue stuck to the back of his throat when he saw Laura’s glowing red eyes and Derek’s squared off stance.

“What’s --”

“There’s blood,” Derek told him around elongated teeth, “The air is thick with it.”

“Someone’s hurt?” Stiles asked anxiously, trying to see around them.

Laura caught his arm and Stiles considered burning her fingers off, “Wait. We’re listening.”

Stiles tore his arm from her grasp, “Listen all you want.” Then he strode forward and entered the room. 

Which was in shambles. Tables had been toppled over, scorch marks etched into the floor. The check-out desk had been cleared and a computer sat upside down on in front of it, small puffs of smoke rising from the crushed monitor. Stiles rounded the desk and lunged forward when he caught sight of a familiar figure laying on his side.

“Isaac!” Stiles skidded to his knees next to him, patting him gently looking for signs of consciousness, “Derek! Get in here!”

The wolves weren’t far behind, nostrils flaring.

Isaac’s eyes were swollen shut, and a thick red mark crossed the center of his forehead. Parts of his cardigan had been torn, and his usual scarf was nowhere to be seen. His mouth was slack, a deep gauge in his chest bleeding a deep red. Stiles felt the fury of the demon rise up in his chest, and he took short, shallow breaths to try and reign it back in. 

“Tell me you hear a heartbeat,” Stiles demanded when Derek neared. Derek nodded, kneeling down next to him, his eyes raking over the unconscious figure before them.

“No serious internal damage,” Derek explained to him calmly, pressing his hands into the human’s chest. “He’s knocked out cold. He put up a fight.”

“Good,” Stiles said with gritted teeth. He took one of Isaac’s hands and held it tightly in his, “We need to get him to a hospital.”

“Already on it,” said Laura from the other side of the desk. She pressed the end call on her cellphone, “I called it in as a break in. The cops will be here in a minute.” She caught her brother’s eyes, “I’m going to have a look around.”

Derek nodded tightly at her but remained crouched down next to Stiles.

“All of this over some dumb book,” Stiles whispered harshly to himself.

“Pretty important book, Stiles.”

“For this?” Stiles gestured violently at Isaac’s body, “For a human to get caught in the crossfires?”

To his credit, Derek remained silent. His hands were still on Isaac’s chest, black veins pulsating as he drew away the human’s pain. Stiles looked away. This was his fault. Somehow, someway, this all started when he came back into town and ended up with that book. It was his fault Isaac was involved, his fault his mother’s car was destroyed…

He needed to go. He’d needed to leave days ago. Should have never come. None of this would have happened if he’d stayed away like he always had.

Stiles stood quickly, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of Derek’s borrowed sweatshirt, “Make sure they take care of him, ok?”

He turned sharply on his heel, fully intending to make a graceful exit when --

Hands gripped the back of his shirt and pulled him around, “You’re staying.” said Derek, his eyes staring intently into Stiles’s.

Stiles struggled in his grip, “No.”

Derek smirked and released him, “I’d love to see you try and leave. Someone wants you to stay. I highly doubt they’ll let you leave without getting the book.”

Stiles looked around and shrugged, “What makes you think they don’t already have it?”

“You think the place would be torn up like this is they were able to summon it?” Derek shook his head, “It’s you, Stiles. For whatever reason, the book can only be called by you.”

“You don’t know that, not for sure.”

Derek studied him, his hands stained red with Isaac’s blood, “But I think  _ you _ do.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue and found he had none. He groaned in frustration and pulled at his hair. They could hear the sirens approach outside. Stiles bit his lip, “I can’t see my dad. Not like this.”

Derek nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out keys. He threw them at him.

“Go lay down in the car. We’ll find you when it’s done.” 

Stiles looked down at the keys in his hands and nodded, pushing back at the doors with his shoulder.

“And Stiles?” Derek stopped him, “I hear that engine start and I’m coming after you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and left the reading room.

 

+++

He waited in the car, biting his nails, and watched as they loaded Isaac into the ambulance. He caught sight of his father, talking intently to Laura, and ducked down like a scared teenager when his glance happened to move towards the Hale’s car. Knees pulled into his chest, head cushioned by the car’s seat, Stiles shut his eyes and tried to think. 

Or rather, tried to talk.

_ What’s going on? _ He asked, reaching out to the cage where he kept the demon locked inside his head,  _ Why is this book so fucking important. _

The demon growled lowly at him.

Stiles sighed,  _ Don’t pout, it’s beneath you. _

_ Nothing is beneath me. I am from the lowest berth in the kingdom of Hell-- _

_ Blah blah blah, _ Stiles thought, mentally rolling his eyes,  _ Are you going to help me or not? _

He felt the demon rattle its cage and took a deep breath, attempting to keep control. Perhaps it was foolish of him to attempt to make contact with the demon, after losing control of it just the night before. But Stiles was at his wits end, and he didn’t know what move to make next.

_ What’s in the woods? _ Stiles asked, changing tactics.

_ Why don’t you go look and see? _ The demon said sanguinely,  _ Four eyes are better than two, you know. _

_ I’m not letting you out,  _ Stiles told it sternly

The demon clicked its tongue,  _ You’ve had your turn. Ten years. You’re tired -- _

_ I’m fine. _

_ The wolf will break you. And I will slip through the cracks. _

Stiles gulped, his heart tripping over itself,  _ The Hales didn’t break me the first time. They won’t break me this time. _

The demon giggled,  _ I like him. I want to roll around inside him. _

_ That’s really gross. _

His thoughts were torn from the conversation by the sounds of someone approaching the car. He opened his eyes to find a tired and bloodstained Derek get into the car, soon followed by Laura.

“Your dad is going with Isaac to the hospital,” Derek said, his voice tired, “He’s freaking out about where you are, Stiles.”

Stiles sat up and cracked his neck, “What did you tell him?”

“That you were under our protection, and we’d keep you safe,” said Laura, turning around to give him a look before starting the car, “And that you’re staying with us for the foreseeable future.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her, “ If I wanted to, you wouldn’t let me go back to my dad’s?”

“ _ Do _ you want to?” Derek asked in a weary voice from the passenger seat.

Something about the tiredness in his voice made Stiles soften, despite himself, “You guys better have HBO.”

The rest of the car ride was spent in silence as Laura drove them back to the Hale house. 

Now that they were moving, Stiles felt restless again, a low buzzing erupting in is feet and traveling up his legs. He began to bounce them, tapping his fingers on his knees and biting his lip. He had too much adrenaline built up from the afternoon and needed to burn it off.

Soon the manor loomed over them as they drove up to the long dirt drive, and Stiles took a moment to marvel at the monstrosity that was the Hale house. 

It had turrets, for god sakes.

Once out of the car he began bouncing on his feet. Derek took one look at him and rolled his eyes, “You can borrow a pair of running shoes.”

Stiles tried to stop the wave a relief that washed over him, “Thanks,” he said instead, running a hand on the back of his neck. He followed the wolves inside, where Laura veered off back towards the library/office/torture welcome committee room and Stiles followed Derek back upstairs. The house was quiet for the middle of the day, and Stiles commented on it.

“Everyone is either at school or work,” Derek responded, yawning, “Just a few of the kids who aren’t in kindergarten yet.” He yawned again, and Stiles suddenly realized how tired the wolf looked.

“Healing takes a lot out of you,” he said softly, watching the wolf push open a bedroom door. Stepping into Derek Hale’s room was rather a surreal moment for Stiles. The walls were painted an olive-toned green, and stepping in his feet sank into a plush gray carpet. There were two large bookshelves that were lined fully with books, and a sturdy, cluttered desk with an expensive and sleek looking laptop sitting atop it. A large bed took up most of the room’s space, centered underneath wide windows that looked out onto the large back yard that led into the woods.

Stiles swallowed and tried to keep his eyes away from the bed. 

He instead studied the bookshelves, taking note the extensive amount of law books, while Derek dug through his closet. Stiles was suddenly presented with a pair of beat-up running shoes, and he couldn't help the grateful smile that spread across his face in thanks. 

“Don’t go too far,” Derek told him gruffly. 

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Get some sleep. I won’t be gone long.”

Derek nodded and then they were suddenly suspended in a moment that, to Stiles, lasted much longer than it should. He looked at Derek, closely examining the tired lines in his face and the thick eyebrows. Derek’s shoulders were relaxed, his shirt slightly crinkled and stained with Isaac’s blood, and Stiles had the overwhelming urge to reach out and stroke his face.

Stiles coughed and backed up towards the door, “I’ll uh, just go now.” his back collided with the side of the door, “Yup.”

He made a hasty escape back down the hall, pausing at the guest room to swap shoes. 

Once he was out in the woods, he took a moment to stretch and warm up his muscles. The forest was quiet, almost eerily so. But the sun was shining and Stiles needed to  _ move _ . He started off at a slow job and quickly picked up pace until his limbs were warm and he’d gone further into the forest, away from the Hale house. 

Stiles felt better out in the woods, freer, certainly, than he did back in the wolf den. He wondered just how long they were going to make him stay, and told himself to remember to call Lydia and let her know -- 

_ “Stiles?” _

He slowed back to a job. The demon growled in his chest.

_ “Stiles!” _

There was that voice again, coming up from the ground as if it was buried underneath -- 

Something caught Stiles’s foot and he fell forward, tumbling over something large and soft. He reached out with his hands to catch himself and landed in the dirt, elbow knocking hard against a rock. He twisted and brought his legs up, turning over and swearing, looking back to see what he’d stumbled over.

A body lay across the trail. A body lay in the forest. 

Stiles’s breath caught in his throat, and time seemed to be suspended around him.

_ “For you,” _ whispered the voice, and his blood chilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments make me write faster.


End file.
